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!
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
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].
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".
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.
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
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.
Romantic Weekend Get-A-Way (for 1)
Back in the spring I bought two tickets from a girl at work on one of those romantic weekend get-a-ways for two at a mountain side chalet. The prize was being drawn by a local school who was doing some fund raising. Being the jackass I am, I asked my coworker for two tickets because "I just have a feeling I'm going to win." And then, hell froze over: I won.
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.
**still waiting**
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.
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.
**still waiting**
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
TV Therapy
Ok. Brace yourself. I'm about about to reveal something you will not believe. Something so incomprehensible, you will be dumbfounded. Are you ready...
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!
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!
Karma's a Bitch
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
So. Hot.
I'm not sure what this chick is trying to do. But she kind of looks like how I did today [minus the blonde hair ofcourse] at the office trying to find "unconventional" ways to cool off. Like full body contact with the water cooler. Repeatedly standing in front of the open fridge door in the lunch room. And running a strategically placed oscillating fan under my desk in my cubicle. Mmmmm.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
- swimming
- 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
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.
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.
Random Compliment, #6
This morning at work...
[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]
[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]
Odd Dreams, #1
A few weeks ago, I had the oddest dream. I dreamt I was showering with the Brit. Ok, wait, that's not the odd part.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
Random Compliment, #5
A male coworker informed me today that, while he didn't think it was possible, I am "even more smokin' hot as a brunette." Or something to that effect. I was trying not to make it obvious I was taking notes to report this for prosperity and/or my blog.
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.
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
Thunderstruck
Over the weekend, I bought two CD's! ACDC Live and ABBA Gold. Double AA's [just like my training bra in elementary school].
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.
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
Bye Bye Birdie
Not to state the obvious, but today is Sunday. I haven' heard from Ben since Tuesday, despite his promise to call this weekend while he was out of town.
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.
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
Ah-ha!
The Great Canadian Coffee. The name says it all eh? This brand of coffee has caused men to fall hopelessly in love with me [ok, 80% is probably due to my top notch coffee preparation skills and non/appropriate coffee brewing attire].
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."
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
Who's That Girl?
Lately I've been hankering for a change. Partially because I'm a raging commitment-phob [more on that later], and also because I bore easily. It's like the chicken and the egg...which came first?
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!
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
Use Your Library Voice
In order to keep busy for the summer (i.e. not focus on boys) I've requested about 20 books at the library - all focused on dating and relationships.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.
Dating By Numbers
Last night I had date #4 with Ben. If you can call it a date. This seems to be a reoccuring theme.
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.
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
Quote of the Day, #1
Me: "I give up. I really have no clue about men anymore."
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."
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
You Must Remember This, A Kiss Is Just A Kiss
This has been a particularly busy dating week, with four dates within 7 days [my own personal record and not recommended]. I must qualify though that three of these dates were all with the same guy.
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.
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
My PG Rated Life
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
Zen and the Art of Dating
"Zen" noun. A school of Mahayana Buddhism that asserts that enlightenment can be attained through meditation, self-contemplation, and intuition rather than through faith and devotion.
"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...
"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...
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Carni-val
My sister, Kirsten is home for the Canada Day weekend. In true Canadian fashion, we typically stretch any holiday into an entire weekend. Which provides even more opportunity for merlot and merriment.
One Canada Day staple is the obligatory trip to the fair. You know, for the kids ;) Neither of us can handle much of the swirling and whirling of the carnival rides (we're saving our stomachs for tomorrow). While my son and nephew ran from ride to ride (intermmittently waiting for long periods in line ups), it gave Kiki and I time to laugh at people's choice of wardrobe (less is never more) and other carni sites to be seen (tanned ride operators with more tattoos than teeth). My sister wondered if the carnis turn up the music and ride the rides after the fair patrons leave each night. My guess is...er, no.
Because of the week-long rain and thunder/lightening fest, the fair grounds resembled a swamp. We were wearing flip flops of course. And with each step, the warmish, smellish swampiness sank further up to our ankles. It was like walking through a sewer. The fact that young teenage boys (presumably trying to impress the girls) were walking around spitting everywhere and people brought their dogs to the fair who no-doubtably pissed everywhere, so it was very much like an actual sewer.
After almost two hours in the mucky muck, our feet felt like fecal covered ice cubes.
Kiki: "Remember how we used to wear strappy sandals out to the bar, even when it was winter?"
Me: "Yeah. Remember that time my feet were so cold I took off my mittens and wore them on my feet over my strappy shoes for the walk home when we couldn't get a cab?"
Kiki: "Yeah."
Lots of laughter.
Kiki: "Remember that time we couldn't get a cab and Kate wanted to go home with that guy just so she could get a ride and avoid walking?"
Me: "Was that the night "name of guy" wanted to take her home and we tried to carry her to Subway?"
Kiki: "No, that was a different night. I'm talking about the night she tried to pee in the alley way between the two parked cars."
Me: "Oh, was that the night I took you both for a ride in the shopping cart and it tipped over on the sidewalk and you both fell out?"
Kiki: "No, that was a different night."
Me: "Oh."
Kiki: "Those were fun times."
I nod in agreement and lots of laughter.
I made her stop telling stories because I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to s*** myself (not very attractive and thanks in part to the spicey hamburger wraps we ate for supper). Fun times indeed.
One Canada Day staple is the obligatory trip to the fair. You know, for the kids ;) Neither of us can handle much of the swirling and whirling of the carnival rides (we're saving our stomachs for tomorrow). While my son and nephew ran from ride to ride (intermmittently waiting for long periods in line ups), it gave Kiki and I time to laugh at people's choice of wardrobe (less is never more) and other carni sites to be seen (tanned ride operators with more tattoos than teeth). My sister wondered if the carnis turn up the music and ride the rides after the fair patrons leave each night. My guess is...er, no.
Because of the week-long rain and thunder/lightening fest, the fair grounds resembled a swamp. We were wearing flip flops of course. And with each step, the warmish, smellish swampiness sank further up to our ankles. It was like walking through a sewer. The fact that young teenage boys (presumably trying to impress the girls) were walking around spitting everywhere and people brought their dogs to the fair who no-doubtably pissed everywhere, so it was very much like an actual sewer.
After almost two hours in the mucky muck, our feet felt like fecal covered ice cubes.
Kiki: "Remember how we used to wear strappy sandals out to the bar, even when it was winter?"
Me: "Yeah. Remember that time my feet were so cold I took off my mittens and wore them on my feet over my strappy shoes for the walk home when we couldn't get a cab?"
Kiki: "Yeah."
Lots of laughter.
Kiki: "Remember that time we couldn't get a cab and Kate wanted to go home with that guy just so she could get a ride and avoid walking?"
Me: "Was that the night "name of guy" wanted to take her home and we tried to carry her to Subway?"
Kiki: "No, that was a different night. I'm talking about the night she tried to pee in the alley way between the two parked cars."
Me: "Oh, was that the night I took you both for a ride in the shopping cart and it tipped over on the sidewalk and you both fell out?"
Kiki: "No, that was a different night."
Me: "Oh."
Kiki: "Those were fun times."
I nod in agreement and lots of laughter.
I made her stop telling stories because I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to s*** myself (not very attractive and thanks in part to the spicey hamburger wraps we ate for supper). Fun times indeed.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Wack Job
My super sweet neighbour, I'll call him Danny* (*not his real name), has been helping me with my lawn maintenance. My other neighbour, I'll call him Chip* (again, not his real name), has also been giving me a hand (With his shirt on this time. And trust me, that's a good thing).
Between Chip using his ride-on mower and Danny using his weed wacker, I've barely had to lift a finger so far this summer. It probably helps that I always express how thankful I am for their assistance. Toss in a couple of eyelash flutters, and a short skirt with flip flops, and ta-da! I've got myself a couple of lawn boys. Kind of like pool boys, but without the water/ requests to have help with my sun tan oil.
Danny wanted to make sure my boyfriend wouldn't mind that he was helping me. Awww. Isn't that sweet? Ofcourse I quickly set the record straight. Lawn boys = 2, boyfriends = 0
Yesterday, Danny asked if I wanted to try out his weed wacker. Ofcourse, being the adventureous girl that I am, I said yes. Well, because Danny is: a) a guy and b) bigger than me, the weed wacker looked a lot smaller when he was wielding it like a knight's sword. But when he brought it out of the shed, it was almost as big as I was.
Danny got it started for me, and showed me what the buttons did. It was gas powered so the trigger gave it a "vroom vroom" sound like an engine reving, or a high powered chain saw. I could hardly contain my excitement...I am woman, hear me roar (over the loud roar of my high powered weed wacker).
And then...
I tried to use it.
It was like the machine had a mind of it's own. Plus is was heavier than a dead body (or something). So I could barely move it around. I was throwing my whole body into getting it to move - then it turned into this pendulum-esque swinging motion. Back and forth, back and forth.
Let's just say, it was a massacre. Grass was flying like muppet fur. I decapitated a cedar post holding up my front step. And those poor flowers, they never saw it coming.
The whole "rein of terror" probably only lasted 60 seconds. I shut off the machine. And half carried, half dragged it to Danny. Naturally, he was trying to maintain composure. Which wasn't helped by the fact I was laughing hysterically.
I felt like such a...girl and I needed to be rescued by the big strong man. Danny told me he doesn't mind taking care of it for me anyway. I wonder if his wife minds?
I guess good fences do make good neighbours. Although, I don't have a fence around my house. Maybe it's cute single girls make good neighbours.
Between Chip using his ride-on mower and Danny using his weed wacker, I've barely had to lift a finger so far this summer. It probably helps that I always express how thankful I am for their assistance. Toss in a couple of eyelash flutters, and a short skirt with flip flops, and ta-da! I've got myself a couple of lawn boys. Kind of like pool boys, but without the water/ requests to have help with my sun tan oil.
Danny wanted to make sure my boyfriend wouldn't mind that he was helping me. Awww. Isn't that sweet? Ofcourse I quickly set the record straight. Lawn boys = 2, boyfriends = 0
Yesterday, Danny asked if I wanted to try out his weed wacker. Ofcourse, being the adventureous girl that I am, I said yes. Well, because Danny is: a) a guy and b) bigger than me, the weed wacker looked a lot smaller when he was wielding it like a knight's sword. But when he brought it out of the shed, it was almost as big as I was.
Danny got it started for me, and showed me what the buttons did. It was gas powered so the trigger gave it a "vroom vroom" sound like an engine reving, or a high powered chain saw. I could hardly contain my excitement...I am woman, hear me roar (over the loud roar of my high powered weed wacker).
And then...
I tried to use it.
It was like the machine had a mind of it's own. Plus is was heavier than a dead body (or something). So I could barely move it around. I was throwing my whole body into getting it to move - then it turned into this pendulum-esque swinging motion. Back and forth, back and forth.
Let's just say, it was a massacre. Grass was flying like muppet fur. I decapitated a cedar post holding up my front step. And those poor flowers, they never saw it coming.
The whole "rein of terror" probably only lasted 60 seconds. I shut off the machine. And half carried, half dragged it to Danny. Naturally, he was trying to maintain composure. Which wasn't helped by the fact I was laughing hysterically.
I felt like such a...girl and I needed to be rescued by the big strong man. Danny told me he doesn't mind taking care of it for me anyway. I wonder if his wife minds?
I guess good fences do make good neighbours. Although, I don't have a fence around my house. Maybe it's cute single girls make good neighbours.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Throbing
Take a belt, wrap it around you head and tighten it as much as you can. Oh come on, you can tighten it more than that!
Now, which hand do you write with? Ok, take you index finger on that hand and jab it into your right eye socket. Nice and deep. Maybe even give it a twist or two. That's good.
Next, lay down on the floor and have someone kick you in the back right hand side of your neck. Careful of the spine!
Ok, get back up again, and take a flashlight. Shine it right in your eye like you're at the police station and they're trying to get you to confess "OJ style".
Welcome to my world. The world in which I have a headache the size of ...something really really big [headaches affect my thought process, and speeling]. There is so much pressure in there right now, I feel like my head is going to spontaniously explode.
Now, which hand do you write with? Ok, take you index finger on that hand and jab it into your right eye socket. Nice and deep. Maybe even give it a twist or two. That's good.
Next, lay down on the floor and have someone kick you in the back right hand side of your neck. Careful of the spine!
Ok, get back up again, and take a flashlight. Shine it right in your eye like you're at the police station and they're trying to get you to confess "OJ style".
Welcome to my world. The world in which I have a headache the size of ...something really really big [headaches affect my thought process, and speeling]. There is so much pressure in there right now, I feel like my head is going to spontaniously explode.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
What Not To Wear: The Bathing Suit Edition
Yesterday I went shopping [shock and horror]. I'm on a very strick budget so I shopping isn't something I do very often. (Can you call it a budget when it means you have no money after you pay your bills?) My closet has become the final resting place for items with holes, rips, alterations-gone-wrongs, and doesn't-quite-fit-rights. Most of my clothes can be placed in one of three categories: will pass for work, will pass for workout and will pass only in the comfort of my own home on "fat days".
I'll be the first to admit, I hate shopping. Much like looking for a suitable man to date, I find there's not enough choice in the area I live, and I know what I want but none of the stores are selling it. Ironically, I have a picnic date on Tuesday evening and was looking for something that says "I'm the most delicious thing on this blanket".
I tore through three shops in under 30 minutes, trying on at least 30 items. The clothes were flying, the swear words were flying. It was not one of my finer moments. Some things fit, some things didn't. But mostly they didn't. A size "small" fit great around my waist but was snug on my biceps (thanks to my Billy band workouts) and smooshed my boobs for that "bodice on a bar wench" look. And don't even get me started on my ghetto booty a$$ that just won't quit.
So, I decided to switch gears and hunt down a bathing suit for next weekend's Canada Day bash (if there's ever a time to flaunt your jugs, it's in a swim suit). Mistake! I tried on 6 bikini's and a one-piece [shudder]. Let's just say, the only place a girl wants to see saddle bags, is on a horse.
I left the mall feeling like crap.
By the time I arrived at the hair salon, I was drained. I asked my hair dresser for something different, something "polished". And for the first time that day, I got exactly what I wanted.
If nothing else, I'll have amazing hair on my date. On second thought, bar wench boobs might not be so bad...
Thursday, June 21, 2007
This Is The Song That Never Ends...
Do you ever find yourself at work [wait...there's more].
And you're stuck in a mindless, endless, meeting that's heading into a third round of the "what if" game [wait...there's more].
You're beyond paying attention. So, to amuse yourself, you start to sing. To yourself. In your head.
You probably have a "go to" song for such an occasion. Me too! Mine's a little ditty called "Uncle Fucka" made popular by my fellow Canadians and South Park stars, Terrance and Phillip.
The longer the meeting goes on, the louder I sing the song in my head. There's even a little jig I picture myself doing on top of the boardroom table (which looks a lot like a Dick VanDyke routine from Mary Poppins) while I belt out the lyrics...broadway style!
Fun times my friend, fun times.
And you're stuck in a mindless, endless, meeting that's heading into a third round of the "what if" game [wait...there's more].
You're beyond paying attention. So, to amuse yourself, you start to sing. To yourself. In your head.
You probably have a "go to" song for such an occasion. Me too! Mine's a little ditty called "Uncle Fucka" made popular by my fellow Canadians and South Park stars, Terrance and Phillip.
The longer the meeting goes on, the louder I sing the song in my head. There's even a little jig I picture myself doing on top of the boardroom table (which looks a lot like a Dick VanDyke routine from Mary Poppins) while I belt out the lyrics...broadway style!
Fun times my friend, fun times.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
An Open Letter to My Future Boyfriend
Dear [insert delicious sounding name that rolls off my tongue here],See how patiently I'm waiting? And, looking somewhat mischievous I might add. Perched gracefully (which isn't easy in that outfit or those shoes) atop a mini-step ladder just waiting for you to come graze my thigh and put something special in my box.
And then...
But first. I need to make a confession (or 8).
The Top 8 Things I Need To Confess to My Future Boyfriend:
- I have a blog: The Redhead-Next-Door. Ever hear of it? Oh :( Well, anyway. I wish you could read it and then tell me you want to be with me anyway. You know, after the initial shock wears off and you regain consciousness.
- I need to be lead by a strong man. Not in a passive 1950's house-wife kind of way. But in a knows how to plan a date, fix things when they break, protector, makes me feel cared for kind of way. [Please, no angry letters from feminists! I know what you are thinking, you crazy feminists, and you're wrong].
- I'm not perfect. Or a virgin. (So don't expect me to be either).
- Sometimes I like to cook. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I try really hard but it still boils over/ burns/ turns to mush/ tastes like cardboard. But I always look cute in an apron.
- I wear men's dress socks.
- I use humor as a defense mechanism.
- What "they" say about redheads - our stubborness, our passion, etc etc - all true
- When all else fails, just hold me.
I'm looking forward to meeting you (hopefully before my ovaries completely rot away).
xoxo,
Erika
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Profile of the Damned
For those of you who've ever tried online dating (I'm forming a support group btw) you know it's all fun and games until it's time to write your profile. The dreaded 100 words or less junket of prose that's going to attract your future potential something or other.
Ok, it's probably not a shock to learn I have no trouble writing the profile. A chance to talk about moi? Using my favorite aphrodisiac - words? Easy. But I have little (possibly no) conscious thought as to how I'm actually coming across to the opposite sex. Too strong? Too ballsy?
[Here's where you come in]
So, I've decided to put my draft profile here for your viewing pleasure/horror and accept feedback/opinions/suggestions. Just keep in mind, I'm delicate :) Oops...that should read "devilish".
Opening line: Writers make novel lovers.
Fun, flirty redhead. Smart and witty to boot. Also likes boots. Constantly looking for writing material. Should mention, am part-time writer, full-time [insert non-glam but completely rewarding day job here]. Can cook more often than not. Major "sure thing" is stuffed mushroom making capabilities, best served with white wine. Thinks cheesecake is...Mmmmmm. Flies by the seat of pants. Has never actually flown in plane. Prefers skirts to pants. Fit and curvy.
Seeking guy with "wow" written all over him. Will accept home-made t-shirt with "wow" written on it. Knows what gentleman means, and can spell it. Has sense of humor. Employed in [insert non-glam but completely rewarding job here]. Considers himself more of a "dog person" than a "cat person". Active. Sweet. Sweaty occasionally. Makes the first move. Has grab-worthy butt.
So whatcha think? Too much? Not enough? Yes, yes, after you've stopped laughing and can formulate sentences.
Ok, it's probably not a shock to learn I have no trouble writing the profile. A chance to talk about moi? Using my favorite aphrodisiac - words? Easy. But I have little (possibly no) conscious thought as to how I'm actually coming across to the opposite sex. Too strong? Too ballsy?
[Here's where you come in]
So, I've decided to put my draft profile here for your viewing pleasure/horror and accept feedback/opinions/suggestions. Just keep in mind, I'm delicate :) Oops...that should read "devilish".
Opening line: Writers make novel lovers.
Fun, flirty redhead. Smart and witty to boot. Also likes boots. Constantly looking for writing material. Should mention, am part-time writer, full-time [insert non-glam but completely rewarding day job here]. Can cook more often than not. Major "sure thing" is stuffed mushroom making capabilities, best served with white wine. Thinks cheesecake is...Mmmmmm. Flies by the seat of pants. Has never actually flown in plane. Prefers skirts to pants. Fit and curvy.
Seeking guy with "wow" written all over him. Will accept home-made t-shirt with "wow" written on it. Knows what gentleman means, and can spell it. Has sense of humor. Employed in [insert non-glam but completely rewarding job here]. Considers himself more of a "dog person" than a "cat person". Active. Sweet. Sweaty occasionally. Makes the first move. Has grab-worthy butt.
So whatcha think? Too much? Not enough? Yes, yes, after you've stopped laughing and can formulate sentences.Saturday, June 16, 2007
Busy Beaver
Today's post is going to be short and sweet (like me). Well, except I'm not short. Then again, I'm not what you would call tall either. But I am unquestionably sweet.
Top10...8 Things To Do This Weekend:
- visit "the" city for some shopping (window), gambling at the casino ($1.00 Cdn), fine dinning (carbo loading for Sunday's race) and a play at the theatre (pick up acting tips, or maybe an actor).
- do laundry because I officially have no clean [insert name of clothing item here]
- clean house so it no longer resembles home of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan
- [finally] get a good night sleep
- run 5km race with Suzie on Sunday without "hospital incident"
- try to concentrate on running race and not staring at muscular touchable butts of male runners in front of me
- bake chocolate chip cookies
- spend time with Dad
I have a feeling there'll be a few post ideas being "developed" this weekend.
Top
- visit "the" city for some shopping (window), gambling at the casino ($1.00 Cdn), fine dinning (carbo loading for Sunday's race) and a play at the theatre (pick up acting tips, or maybe an actor).
- do laundry because I officially have no clean [insert name of clothing item here]
- clean house so it no longer resembles home of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan
- [finally] get a good night sleep
- run 5km race with Suzie on Sunday without "hospital incident"
- try to concentrate on running race and not staring at muscular touchable butts of male runners in front of me
- bake chocolate chip cookies
- spend time with Dad
I have a feeling there'll be a few post ideas being "developed" this weekend.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Day In The Life Of the Redhead-Next-Door (aka cute n' klutzy)
Yay - my first ever Podcast!
For those of you like me (i.e. no sound on their PC at home) I've also provided a transcription. Sure, you don't get my neat-o sound effects like the fake cat meow, but still....
I haven't actually heard the recording (again, no sound) but ran it by a focus group first (can one person be considered a focus group?) and was assured my first podcast was postable. Or was that compostable?
Hi. I'm Erika. You probably remember me from such blogs as "The Redhead-Next-Door" which you're currently reading...er, listening to and the short lived "Will Write For Booze."
And yes, this is my actual voice. Isn't that right Mrs. Bigglesworth? "Meow."
You picked a ****ing fantastic day to check out my blog because...[whispers] I have a secret to tell you.
[Whispers] Come closer. [Whispers] Even closer. What, do I have something contagious? I'm going to tell you a secret, not blow in your eye. Get in here!
There, that's better.
Are you ready?
Ok [deep breath]. Here goes. I. Am. A. Klutz. There, I said it. Klutz, with a capital K.
If there was an Elaine Benes physical comedy fanclub, I would in fact be President.
You don't believe me do you?
May I present: Exhibit A!
Today I was soooo hungry. I was tempted to eat my lunch at break time. But then I thought, what would I eat at lunch time? There was some unappealing almost-out-of-date oatmeal in my cubicle. Yuck.
I could have wandered around the cubicle farm doing my cutest "feed me" face like puppies, kittens and Nicole Richie do until somebody caves and feeds them. It was what they call "in the biz" quite the quandry. Well, maybe we don't call it that. Quandry. But I'm sure in some businesses, somewhere, they do. Quandry. That's fun to say isn't it?
Anyhoo.
Instead, I scraped together the $1.89 to go to the local "shall remain nameless" coffee shop for a double double and a ham and cheese biscuit. Mmmmmmmm...
While scarfing down my biscuit and coffee I was watching a controversial op ed piece on gay marriage and a bit of the biscuit got caught on my brace elastic which acted like a sling shot firing the piece of ham and cheesy goodness down my throat. Luckily, I don't have much of a gag reflex.
Anyhoo.
On to Exhibit B!
Fast forward to lunch. While scrafing down my tuna and jalapeno cheese sandwich on white bread I went to take a drink of Pepsi through a straw and tipped the can of Pepsi like I was drinking it from my lips. It was both refreshing and sticky when half of the can emptied into my lap. Unfortunately I was wearing my favorite cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy . My favorite skirt that now looked like somebody had really runny diarrhia on it.
I ran to the office kitchen holding the front of my skirt like some sort of diarrhia filled bag and promptly applied paper towel. And more paper towel. And then, finally, yup, more paper towel. Can somebody order some ****ing absorbant paper towel for in here!!!
Because of the amount of water it took to remove the big brown Pepsi stain, my cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy was now see-through. Ok perhaps, if you work at a brothel, not ok if you work in an office where you regularily meet with clients.
But wait, there's more.
Finally, I present Exhibit C.
After shivering under the air conditioning in my soaking wet see-through skirt all afternoon I decided to make myself a cup of hot chocolate to warm up. Because let's face it, the blanket I had wrapped around me "tog-a party style" was doing nothing for my image. I boiled the kettle. I carefully spooned four teaspoons of yummy powdery coco-y goodness into my lime green cup. I tenderly handled the kettle, cautiously pouring the hot water where it mingled with the hot chocolate, enveloping it. Mmmmmm...
I lifted the succulant cup to my moistened lips. Not too quickly, it's best not to rush these sort of things. Ooooo and then...
I looked down at my skirt. And right below my perky **** was a big blob of hot chocolate.
Maybe I need to invest in one of those big lobster bibs.
For those of you like me (i.e. no sound on their PC at home) I've also provided a transcription. Sure, you don't get my neat-o sound effects like the fake cat meow, but still....
I haven't actually heard the recording (again, no sound) but ran it by a focus group first (can one person be considered a focus group?) and was assured my first podcast was postable. Or was that compostable?
Hi. I'm Erika. You probably remember me from such blogs as "The Redhead-Next-Door" which you're currently reading...er, listening to and the short lived "Will Write For Booze."
And yes, this is my actual voice. Isn't that right Mrs. Bigglesworth? "Meow."
You picked a ****ing fantastic day to check out my blog because...[whispers] I have a secret to tell you.
[Whispers] Come closer. [Whispers] Even closer. What, do I have something contagious? I'm going to tell you a secret, not blow in your eye. Get in here!
There, that's better.
Are you ready?
Ok [deep breath]. Here goes. I. Am. A. Klutz. There, I said it. Klutz, with a capital K.
If there was an Elaine Benes physical comedy fanclub, I would in fact be President.
You don't believe me do you?
May I present: Exhibit A!
Today I was soooo hungry. I was tempted to eat my lunch at break time. But then I thought, what would I eat at lunch time? There was some unappealing almost-out-of-date oatmeal in my cubicle. Yuck.
I could have wandered around the cubicle farm doing my cutest "feed me" face like puppies, kittens and Nicole Richie do until somebody caves and feeds them. It was what they call "in the biz" quite the quandry. Well, maybe we don't call it that. Quandry. But I'm sure in some businesses, somewhere, they do. Quandry. That's fun to say isn't it?
Anyhoo.
Instead, I scraped together the $1.89 to go to the local "shall remain nameless" coffee shop for a double double and a ham and cheese biscuit. Mmmmmmmm...
While scarfing down my biscuit and coffee I was watching a controversial op ed piece on gay marriage and a bit of the biscuit got caught on my brace elastic which acted like a sling shot firing the piece of ham and cheesy goodness down my throat. Luckily, I don't have much of a gag reflex.
Anyhoo.
On to Exhibit B!
Fast forward to lunch. While scrafing down my tuna and jalapeno cheese sandwich on white bread I went to take a drink of Pepsi through a straw and tipped the can of Pepsi like I was drinking it from my lips. It was both refreshing and sticky when half of the can emptied into my lap. Unfortunately I was wearing my favorite cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy . My favorite skirt that now looked like somebody had really runny diarrhia on it.
I ran to the office kitchen holding the front of my skirt like some sort of diarrhia filled bag and promptly applied paper towel. And more paper towel. And then, finally, yup, more paper towel. Can somebody order some ****ing absorbant paper towel for in here!!!
Because of the amount of water it took to remove the big brown Pepsi stain, my cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy was now see-through. Ok perhaps, if you work at a brothel, not ok if you work in an office where you regularily meet with clients.
But wait, there's more.
Finally, I present Exhibit C.
After shivering under the air conditioning in my soaking wet see-through skirt all afternoon I decided to make myself a cup of hot chocolate to warm up. Because let's face it, the blanket I had wrapped around me "tog-a party style" was doing nothing for my image. I boiled the kettle. I carefully spooned four teaspoons of yummy powdery coco-y goodness into my lime green cup. I tenderly handled the kettle, cautiously pouring the hot water where it mingled with the hot chocolate, enveloping it. Mmmmmm...
I lifted the succulant cup to my moistened lips. Not too quickly, it's best not to rush these sort of things. Ooooo and then...
I looked down at my skirt. And right below my perky **** was a big blob of hot chocolate.
Maybe I need to invest in one of those big lobster bibs.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Love and Furniture
I am currently working on a dating theory entitled, "Curse of the furniture." Ok, so it doesn't sound very catchy just yet. But I'm in the initial stages of development. And catchy titles don't happen until much much later...like after experimental tests on lab subjects and after many [many] bottles of wine.
My "research" is based on two experiences, with two relationships that went to s***. But I'll let you be the judge.
The first was with Gordon* (*His real name). Gordon was getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Gordon was fun. Gordon was smart. I really liked it when Gordon ******************* and **********. Anyhoo, Gordon's son was ready to move into a big boy bed. I still had my son's toddler bed, which wasn't being used, so I offered it to Gordon. In exchange, he offered an outdoor stove thingy to my parents which they were in the market for. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could of been because our timing was off. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was that our waists were the same measurement. Though, I doubted.
One word: furniture.
Then, most recently ofcourse, there is Liam** (**Not his real name). Liam is getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Liam paid attention. Liam could cook. He was the only guy I've ever been with who could ************************** and thought about ************** . Anyhoo, Liam was remodeling his daughter's bedroom and had been using a wooden baby change table to heap her clothes on. I had a sweet little antique dresser that wasn't being used, so I leant it to Liam. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could have been that he turned into a control freak. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was because he hated how his feet looked and wouldn't wear sandles even on a warm summer's day. [Ok, maybe it was the last one . Sandles on guys = mmmm...sexy!] Though, I doubted.
One word: furniture.
On a more positive note...I'm back to online dating. I think "sucker for punishment" are the words you're looking for.
My "research" is based on two experiences, with two relationships that went to s***. But I'll let you be the judge.
The first was with Gordon* (*His real name). Gordon was getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Gordon was fun. Gordon was smart. I really liked it when Gordon ******************* and **********. Anyhoo, Gordon's son was ready to move into a big boy bed. I still had my son's toddler bed, which wasn't being used, so I offered it to Gordon. In exchange, he offered an outdoor stove thingy to my parents which they were in the market for. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could of been because our timing was off. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was that our waists were the same measurement. Though, I doubted.
One word: furniture.
Then, most recently ofcourse, there is Liam** (**Not his real name). Liam is getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Liam paid attention. Liam could cook. He was the only guy I've ever been with who could ************************** and thought about ************** . Anyhoo, Liam was remodeling his daughter's bedroom and had been using a wooden baby change table to heap her clothes on. I had a sweet little antique dresser that wasn't being used, so I leant it to Liam. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could have been that he turned into a control freak. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was because he hated how his feet looked and wouldn't wear sandles even on a warm summer's day. [Ok, maybe it was the last one . Sandles on guys = mmmm...sexy!] Though, I doubted.
One word: furniture.
On a more positive note...I'm back to online dating. I think "sucker for punishment" are the words you're looking for.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Undiscovered Dating Techniques #5: Wrestlemania
This technique was a tip from Undercover Mother.
What you are about to read is the most up-to-date dating [etc] techniques unknown to womankind. If you are a guy and reading this...STOP. It makes it harder for us girls to work our "ways" on you when you know what said "ways" are. Besides, you'll thank me for it when you're on the receiving end of this kind of action. Yes, ACTION. Now go spend some quality time in the bathroom with the new towels (the extra soft ones).
Ok, now that the guys are gone I can tell you that my good friend Hulk Hogan is going to be helping me demonstrate these dating techniques. It's a shame the guys aren't reading this post. I bet they'd really like Hulk Hogan. Or at least all this talk about spandex.
Hulk Hogan: "Thanks for having me here Big Red. Ooooooo yeah!"
RND: "Uh...Hulky, isn't that the catch phrase of your former arch enemy Macho Man Randy Savage? And remember, I told you never to call me Big Red again."
So ladies, you're out at da club and you spot a hunk. Naturally, you want to get his attention away from the local skanks. Take a page from the Hulkster and ... [see below]
Use this face too.
I call it the "Grin and Bare It" technique.
Now that will REALLY get his attention.
HH: "I pity the fool!"
RND: "Um, doesn't Mr. T say that?"
HH: "I pity the drunk fool."
RND: "Better."
However, if your boy-toy's eyes are skank-afied like Captain Kirk on an alien planet looking to boldly go where no man's gone before, then it's time for Plan B...aptly named, the "Breast Press".
Warning: This particular technique should only be used if you have a good sized set of knockers, ie. at least a C cup. Or a B cup (but only if he's really short).
HH: "If you believe in yourself..."
RND: [interrupts] "Come on! Billy Blanks?"
So there you have it. A few new "moves" to add to your repertoire. Please consult with your physician before attempting any of the moves depicted above which were developed by trained professionals and then taught to wrestlers.
Or, as one guy suggests, you could just walk up to the guy and say "Hi, I like you. You must like me 'cause I'm adorable. So, let's skip the horseshit and jump to getting to know each other better."
Hmmm...simple and direct with the promise of physical action. It's so crazy, it just might work.
What you are about to read is the most up-to-date dating [etc] techniques unknown to womankind. If you are a guy and reading this...STOP. It makes it harder for us girls to work our "ways" on you when you know what said "ways" are. Besides, you'll thank me for it when you're on the receiving end of this kind of action. Yes, ACTION. Now go spend some quality time in the bathroom with the new towels (the extra soft ones).
Ok, now that the guys are gone I can tell you that my good friend Hulk Hogan is going to be helping me demonstrate these dating techniques. It's a shame the guys aren't reading this post. I bet they'd really like Hulk Hogan. Or at least all this talk about spandex.
Hulk Hogan: "Thanks for having me here Big Red. Ooooooo yeah!"
RND: "Uh...Hulky, isn't that the catch phrase of your former arch enemy Macho Man Randy Savage? And remember, I told you never to call me Big Red again."
So ladies, you're out at da club and you spot a hunk. Naturally, you want to get his attention away from the local skanks. Take a page from the Hulkster and ... [see below]
Use this face too.I call it the "Grin and Bare It" technique.
Now that will REALLY get his attention.
HH: "I pity the fool!"
RND: "Um, doesn't Mr. T say that?"
HH: "I pity the drunk fool."
RND: "Better."
However, if your boy-toy's eyes are skank-afied like Captain Kirk on an alien planet looking to boldly go where no man's gone before, then it's time for Plan B...aptly named, the "Breast Press".
Warning: This particular technique should only be used if you have a good sized set of knockers, ie. at least a C cup. Or a B cup (but only if he's really short).HH: "Who-ya Master Chief!"
RND: [unimpressed] "GI Jane"
So he's still not getting it huh? Are you sure you're trying!
Ok, this is a fail safe. It's called the "Flying ****" [see below]. Honey, if he doesn't get it...he's either dead, or dumb. And you don't want either (but especially the latter).
RND: [unimpressed] "GI Jane"
So he's still not getting it huh? Are you sure you're trying!
Ok, this is a fail safe. It's called the "Flying ****" [see below]. Honey, if he doesn't get it...he's either dead, or dumb. And you don't want either (but especially the latter).
HH: "If you believe in yourself..."RND: [interrupts] "Come on! Billy Blanks?"
So there you have it. A few new "moves" to add to your repertoire. Please consult with your physician before attempting any of the moves depicted above which were developed by trained professionals and then taught to wrestlers.
Or, as one guy suggests, you could just walk up to the guy and say "Hi, I like you. You must like me 'cause I'm adorable. So, let's skip the horseshit and jump to getting to know each other better."
Hmmm...simple and direct with the promise of physical action. It's so crazy, it just might work.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Timing
Yesterday I went for a run to get my timing/distance/total body conditioning/chance of cardiac arrest up to par for my upcoming marathon next Sunday. I was joined by my 10-year-old son (via his bike).
It was hot by Canadian standards (30 C), so I found myself taking more-frequent-than-usual water breaks.
On one such break, I replaced my mini-water bottle back on my fuel belt. Then decided to make an adjustment to my panties. Normally I do a quick peripheral scan to make sure I don't have an audience and then "adjust". But for whatever reason yesterday, I did not. After taking care of my wedgie, I was passed by a fellow jogger (details: guy, tanned, hot, sweaty, no shirt, amazing....er, stride). Despite being hot from running, I could still feel my cheeks burn just a little more from slight embarassment. I mean, it's not like I was digging for gold or anything. It was, in my opinion, a lady-like wedgie removal (if there ever is such a thing). Besides, once you give birth via hospital delivery room with about 10 strangers viewing you in all your stirrup glory, only slight embarrassment can exist after that.
Reality check: there is one less guy in the world that will be asking me out.
I ran to catch up with my son, who continued to ride his bike and was about 8 meters ahead of me. As I came up along side of him, he turned to me and said, "Mum, you're beautiful."
My timing may be way off, but my son's is spot on.
It was hot by Canadian standards (30 C), so I found myself taking more-frequent-than-usual water breaks.
On one such break, I replaced my mini-water bottle back on my fuel belt. Then decided to make an adjustment to my panties. Normally I do a quick peripheral scan to make sure I don't have an audience and then "adjust". But for whatever reason yesterday, I did not. After taking care of my wedgie, I was passed by a fellow jogger (details: guy, tanned, hot, sweaty, no shirt, amazing....er, stride). Despite being hot from running, I could still feel my cheeks burn just a little more from slight embarassment. I mean, it's not like I was digging for gold or anything. It was, in my opinion, a lady-like wedgie removal (if there ever is such a thing). Besides, once you give birth via hospital delivery room with about 10 strangers viewing you in all your stirrup glory, only slight embarrassment can exist after that.
Reality check: there is one less guy in the world that will be asking me out.
I ran to catch up with my son, who continued to ride his bike and was about 8 meters ahead of me. As I came up along side of him, he turned to me and said, "Mum, you're beautiful."
My timing may be way off, but my son's is spot on.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Knocked Up
Oy, my tummy. It hurts right now. Come to think of it, I'm feeling slightly nauseous too. And that heartburn...where did THAT come from?
Oh yeah! From all the side splitting laughter I had at the movies watching "Knocked Up", not to mention the bag o' screaming sour candy I downed. What did you think I meant? Sheesh.
If you haven't seen this movie, run for a [expletive] cinematic experience. (Don't walk...unless ofcourse you are knocked up in which case you should tread carefully or maybe even skip the movie altogether unless you're asking for a quick slap of reality).
It's crude, it's rude, but best of all it's real.
What shocked me the most (more than the "crowning" shot or the sight of Seth Rogan's hairy ass) was how many old people were there in the theatre. This frail looking 78 year old was two feet away from me. I thought she would be offended. But she was fine (right after she took her medication anyway).
I can't say anymore - I don't want to give anything away. It restored something in me I had lost. A belief. That Paul Rudd can act. Sort of.
Note: Knocked Up (the movie) is not really appropriate for a first date (more like a second date...the movie...not actually getting knocked up).
Also Note: The Redhead-Next-Door does not advocate/promote/condone pre-marital/post-martial protected/unprotected sex especially when it results in the procreation and passing-on-of the "hairy ass" gene.
Oh yeah! From all the side splitting laughter I had at the movies watching "Knocked Up", not to mention the bag o' screaming sour candy I downed. What did you think I meant? Sheesh.
If you haven't seen this movie, run for a [expletive] cinematic experience. (Don't walk...unless ofcourse you are knocked up in which case you should tread carefully or maybe even skip the movie altogether unless you're asking for a quick slap of reality).
It's crude, it's rude, but best of all it's real.
What shocked me the most (more than the "crowning" shot or the sight of Seth Rogan's hairy ass) was how many old people were there in the theatre. This frail looking 78 year old was two feet away from me. I thought she would be offended. But she was fine (right after she took her medication anyway).
I can't say anymore - I don't want to give anything away. It restored something in me I had lost. A belief. That Paul Rudd can act. Sort of.
Note: Knocked Up (the movie) is not really appropriate for a first date (more like a second date...the movie...not actually getting knocked up).
Also Note: The Redhead-Next-Door does not advocate/promote/condone pre-marital/post-martial protected/unprotected sex especially when it results in the procreation and passing-on-of the "hairy ass" gene.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Answering Your Burning Questions, #3
Today's question comes from James.
He writes, "Where do I find a gorgeous, interesting, intelligent, active girl? (And preferrably one that fancies me).
My answer: At my house.
But seriously ;)
If you want food, you go to the grocery store. So, following that line of reasoning, if you want a gorgeous/interesting/intelligent/active girl, she can only be found in one place...at your local library. Under "fiction."
But seriously ;)
Like attracts like. Unless ofcourse you're complete opposites, and then, well, the opposite is true.
Perhaps you're not sending the proper message out to the universe?
Ok, here's how it works. The universe is made up of a big ball of energy. When we send out thoughts, they too are energy and the universe responds to our energy with...you guessed it...energy. The universe wants to give us what we want. Like REALLY wants to.
But you need to be really specific about the kind of girl you're looking for. Like REALLY specific (for example: has cute little mole on left side of stomach. I completely just made that up out of the blue BTW) or else the universe may get confused and send you Rosie O'Donnell.
Pour yourself a drink. Put on some [insert mood music here] and try making a list of every quality that pops into your head. Quiet the inner critic (with a second drink). And check your list twice (hey, it works for Santa!). Put the list next to your bed. It should be the first thing you look at when you wake up and the last thing you look at when you go to bed at night (for now). Give it 30 days and if the universe doesn't send you the woman you seek...
Then I guess I was wrong. You probably thought I was going to tell you "just be yourself" and all that crap huh.
*hugs* Hope this helps!
He writes, "Where do I find a gorgeous, interesting, intelligent, active girl? (And preferrably one that fancies me).
My answer: At my house.
But seriously ;)
If you want food, you go to the grocery store. So, following that line of reasoning, if you want a gorgeous/interesting/intelligent/active girl, she can only be found in one place...at your local library. Under "fiction."
But seriously ;)
Like attracts like. Unless ofcourse you're complete opposites, and then, well, the opposite is true.
Perhaps you're not sending the proper message out to the universe?
Ok, here's how it works. The universe is made up of a big ball of energy. When we send out thoughts, they too are energy and the universe responds to our energy with...you guessed it...energy. The universe wants to give us what we want. Like REALLY wants to.
But you need to be really specific about the kind of girl you're looking for. Like REALLY specific (for example: has cute little mole on left side of stomach. I completely just made that up out of the blue BTW) or else the universe may get confused and send you Rosie O'Donnell.
Pour yourself a drink. Put on some [insert mood music here] and try making a list of every quality that pops into your head. Quiet the inner critic (with a second drink). And check your list twice (hey, it works for Santa!). Put the list next to your bed. It should be the first thing you look at when you wake up and the last thing you look at when you go to bed at night (for now). Give it 30 days and if the universe doesn't send you the woman you seek...
Then I guess I was wrong. You probably thought I was going to tell you "just be yourself" and all that crap huh.
*hugs* Hope this helps!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Answering Your Burning Questions, #2
Today's question comes from Tom.
He writes, "Dear R-N-D, should I ever confess to a girl I'm dating about how many women I've slept with?"
My answer: Not unless the answer is 1. Even if that IS your actual answer you risk sounding like a girly-man who just couldn't get his act together enough to fool some impresonable and/or drunk women into sleeping with him. (Or even worse, a man who has respect for women and chooses to worship them for the goodesses they are - blech). And any number higher than your age makes you sound like a man-whore.
FYI - girls can see through the old "you're the only one that matters to me" line from a mile away.
So what's a guy to do?
You could go for the fail safe "baker's dozen" which not everyone knows is 13 (ie. giving you that one "freebie"). Or you could use one of the following actual math formulas to come up with a plausable number:
And Tom, you're welcome.
[Got a burning question that doesn't require topical cream? Then email me at redhead-next-door@hotmail.com for advice you won't find anywhere else!]
He writes, "Dear R-N-D, should I ever confess to a girl I'm dating about how many women I've slept with?"
My answer: Not unless the answer is 1. Even if that IS your actual answer you risk sounding like a girly-man who just couldn't get his act together enough to fool some impresonable and/or drunk women into sleeping with him. (Or even worse, a man who has respect for women and chooses to worship them for the goodesses they are - blech). And any number higher than your age makes you sound like a man-whore.
FYI - girls can see through the old "you're the only one that matters to me" line from a mile away.
So what's a guy to do?
You could go for the fail safe "baker's dozen" which not everyone knows is 13 (ie. giving you that one "freebie"). Or you could use one of the following actual math formulas to come up with a plausable number:
And Tom, you're welcome.[Got a burning question that doesn't require topical cream? Then email me at redhead-next-door@hotmail.com for advice you won't find anywhere else!]
Monday, June 04, 2007
Hand-y
I sometimes wonder how I come across to guys. My coworker Rowan has already informed me that men find me intimidating. I think he's just trying to make me paranoid [ok, it's only half working]. When I think I'm being all Wonder Women-esque, are men thinking I'm more Wonder Bread-esque?
Case in point...
[I find "case in point" a weird saying, probably because it reminds me of "case of beer" which is even funnier because I haven't been able to drink beer since I got horribly sick off a tall-boy can of Keith's when I was a mere 14. To add to the "color that is my life" I find a man drinking out of a beer bottle amazingly sexy and impossible to resist].
To my mum who is probably reading...the whole beer thing was my first time drinking. *wink*
Oh wait, you just read that wink didn't you?
To my mum who is probably reading, I didn't mean to wink. ;)
Moving on.
Remember when I kicked all kinds of handyman ass and put up a new mailbox for my Nana? Well some of the local fuckos* admired my handy work so much they stole the mailbox. And the wooden post it was attached to. And the wooden post that wooden post was attached to, and nestled in the ground.
So Sunday afternoon I took my Nana to the local hardware places to scope out something more...durable. I thought it would be funny to get one that would deliver an electric shock to anyone who is within shocking range for longer than 10 seconds. But they were on back order. Instead we opted for one of those plastic looks-like-one-piece but are actually many pieces mailboxes. I liked this option because it comes with almost everything you need. Everything except a 4" x 4" piece of lumber.
Being newly single, it was time to brush up on my flirting skills. And what better way to get back at 'er than with a hunky hardware guy. I sauntered up to the counter and was greeted by the biggest sly smile I've gotten in a while. He was so rugged looking - shoulder length dirty blonde hair (nicely conditioned), scruffly semi-bread, rippling muscles and a golden tan. Like a guy who works outside a lot. Or a golden retriever. And sure he was missing a few of his fingers on his right hand (so safety isn't his thing ok?). But still. Mmmmm...
Wait, where was I?
Ahem. Yes, wood. Er, a wooden post. So he helped me pick the length (I opted for an 8 foot post cut down to 6 feet). My Nana was questioning what tools I was going to use to dig a hole big enough for the post and to assemble the mailbox. I kept telling her it'd be no problem and that all I needed was a shovel, a drill, a screwdriver and a socket wrench. The hunky hardware guy seemed impressed that I knew my tools (boy, do I!). By the time I got to the cash register, I was sweating. And it wasn't from any heavy lifting (he did it all). Even my Nana was checking him out and making highly inappropriate comments (thank goodness I was the only one in ear shot).
In retrospect, it took just shy of two hours to dig (down almost three feet) and assemble the finished product. I ended up sawing the 6 foot post down to 4 feet. But man-o, that thing looks ****ing awesome. And there's no way some fucko* is lifting it, let alone walking away with it.
I can't help but wonder what the hunky hardware guy was really thinking when he was helping me. I hope he wasn't thinking about toast.
* The word fucko was first coined by Peter DeWolf.
Case in point...
[I find "case in point" a weird saying, probably because it reminds me of "case of beer" which is even funnier because I haven't been able to drink beer since I got horribly sick off a tall-boy can of Keith's when I was a mere 14. To add to the "color that is my life" I find a man drinking out of a beer bottle amazingly sexy and impossible to resist].
To my mum who is probably reading...the whole beer thing was my first time drinking. *wink*
Oh wait, you just read that wink didn't you?
To my mum who is probably reading, I didn't mean to wink. ;)
Moving on.
Remember when I kicked all kinds of handyman ass and put up a new mailbox for my Nana? Well some of the local fuckos* admired my handy work so much they stole the mailbox. And the wooden post it was attached to. And the wooden post that wooden post was attached to, and nestled in the ground.
So Sunday afternoon I took my Nana to the local hardware places to scope out something more...durable. I thought it would be funny to get one that would deliver an electric shock to anyone who is within shocking range for longer than 10 seconds. But they were on back order. Instead we opted for one of those plastic looks-like-one-piece but are actually many pieces mailboxes. I liked this option because it comes with almost everything you need. Everything except a 4" x 4" piece of lumber.
Being newly single, it was time to brush up on my flirting skills. And what better way to get back at 'er than with a hunky hardware guy. I sauntered up to the counter and was greeted by the biggest sly smile I've gotten in a while. He was so rugged looking - shoulder length dirty blonde hair (nicely conditioned), scruffly semi-bread, rippling muscles and a golden tan. Like a guy who works outside a lot. Or a golden retriever. And sure he was missing a few of his fingers on his right hand (so safety isn't his thing ok?). But still. Mmmmm...
Wait, where was I?
Ahem. Yes, wood. Er, a wooden post. So he helped me pick the length (I opted for an 8 foot post cut down to 6 feet). My Nana was questioning what tools I was going to use to dig a hole big enough for the post and to assemble the mailbox. I kept telling her it'd be no problem and that all I needed was a shovel, a drill, a screwdriver and a socket wrench. The hunky hardware guy seemed impressed that I knew my tools (boy, do I!). By the time I got to the cash register, I was sweating. And it wasn't from any heavy lifting (he did it all). Even my Nana was checking him out and making highly inappropriate comments (thank goodness I was the only one in ear shot).
In retrospect, it took just shy of two hours to dig (down almost three feet) and assemble the finished product. I ended up sawing the 6 foot post down to 4 feet. But man-o, that thing looks ****ing awesome. And there's no way some fucko* is lifting it, let alone walking away with it.
I can't help but wonder what the hunky hardware guy was really thinking when he was helping me. I hope he wasn't thinking about toast.
* The word fucko was first coined by Peter DeWolf.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Come to Momma
Dear Bloggie,
Please forgive me. I've been a very [very] bad girl.
It was not very nice of me to go away like that so suddenly. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. It's ok. Erika's back.
There's a lot that's happened since I've been away. To get you up to speed (without the filler and shameless swearing - well, maybe a bit of the swearing), I thought it'd be best to do a...wait for it...list. I know how you like lists. And when I do that special swirly thing with my tongue.
Top 10 Things That Happened While I Lived As A Non-Blogger:
- Took 3 hour allergy test (using both forearms, plus a bicep). Threat of death if consuming nuts or shelfish replaced by much more practical allergy to all trees and grass.
- Slacked off training for marathon. Will now amp up (ie. start) training and run 10 km in three weeks.
- Gained 5-7 pounds (or possibly 20...I don't own a scale and just ask Mr. Stewart, my Grade 10 math teacher, I was never good at guessing)
- Stopped buying succulant celery because my [ex] boyfriend Liam thinks it tastes like water (yes, yes, we're getting to the "ex" part)
- Had horrible drama-filled Sunday morning complete with door slamming, yelling, breaking up and Tim Hortons and uneaten raisin bread toast. Still bruised from quick and painful fall from Cloud #9.
- Considered taking Liam back
- Considered becoming a lesbian
- Remembered I like penises and teeny tiny man boobies
- Had heart-to-heart talk with Undercover Mother complete with crying, ice cream and cotton candy
- Renewed [possibly lifetime] membership to the "Single Girls Club"
See, you didn't miss too much.
Erika
Please forgive me. I've been a very [very] bad girl.
It was not very nice of me to go away like that so suddenly. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. It's ok. Erika's back.
There's a lot that's happened since I've been away. To get you up to speed (without the filler and shameless swearing - well, maybe a bit of the swearing), I thought it'd be best to do a...wait for it...list. I know how you like lists. And when I do that special swirly thing with my tongue.
Top 10 Things That Happened While I Lived As A Non-Blogger:
- Took 3 hour allergy test (using both forearms, plus a bicep). Threat of death if consuming nuts or shelfish replaced by much more practical allergy to all trees and grass.
- Slacked off training for marathon. Will now amp up (ie. start) training and run 10 km in three weeks.
- Gained 5-7 pounds (or possibly 20...I don't own a scale and just ask Mr. Stewart, my Grade 10 math teacher, I was never good at guessing)
- Stopped buying succulant celery because my [ex] boyfriend Liam thinks it tastes like water (yes, yes, we're getting to the "ex" part)
- Had horrible drama-filled Sunday morning complete with door slamming, yelling, breaking up and Tim Hortons and uneaten raisin bread toast. Still bruised from quick and painful fall from Cloud #9.
- Considered taking Liam back
- Considered becoming a lesbian
- Remembered I like penises and teeny tiny man boobies
- Had heart-to-heart talk with Undercover Mother complete with crying, ice cream and cotton candy
- Renewed [possibly lifetime] membership to the "Single Girls Club"
See, you didn't miss too much.
Erika
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Blog Today. Gone Tomorrow.
Dear Blog,
As I approach my 100th post in 10 months (9 more to go!) I'm amazed...
At the crazy topics I've covered.
The things I've done in the name of "research".
The high consumption of booze.
The bad dates (too many).
The good dates (just enough).
The high consumption of booze.
I've come a long way from the no-dating-til-it's-all-done-list little Redhead-Next-Door. Now I'm in a normal well-adjusted albeit crazy-in-love relationship. And I have you to thank dear Blog [well that, and my fantastic bottom].
We had some great times Blog. We've laughed. We've cried. We've had pillow fights in our underwear.
But now, it's time to say goodbye. I know this isn't something that we've talked about, but we always knew one day we would go our seperate ways.
I will miss you Blog; you were my first.
xoxo, Erika
[Post Blog Post Note: Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting over the last 10 months. I love you all! I'll be starting up another blog soon. For anyone who'd like the link, send me an email at redhead-next-door@hotmail.com].
As I approach my 100th post in 10 months (9 more to go!) I'm amazed...
At the crazy topics I've covered.
The things I've done in the name of "research".
The high consumption of booze.
The bad dates (too many).
The good dates (just enough).
The high consumption of booze.
I've come a long way from the no-dating-til-it's-all-done-list little Redhead-Next-Door. Now I'm in a normal well-adjusted albeit crazy-in-love relationship. And I have you to thank dear Blog [well that, and my fantastic bottom].
We had some great times Blog. We've laughed. We've cried. We've had pillow fights in our underwear.
But now, it's time to say goodbye. I know this isn't something that we've talked about, but we always knew one day we would go our seperate ways.
I will miss you Blog; you were my first.
xoxo, Erika
[Post Blog Post Note: Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting over the last 10 months. I love you all! I'll be starting up another blog soon. For anyone who'd like the link, send me an email at redhead-next-door@hotmail.com].
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Zoom Zoom Zoom
I'm quickly learning that guys love tinkering and general fix-it's for a woman in need ["need" is often self-determined by said guy]. More than likely an automatic response that can be tracked back to caveman days when the cave dude was always trying to help a cute cave girl reach the cub off the top rock. Guys like to feel wanted and needed. It's not rocket science.
Liam offered to check out my stereo system because the sound in the right side speaker was dodgy. He peered around the component, and promptly asked for a flashlight so he could examine the wires and determine the problem. Ofcourse, I was assigned to be the pretty tech assistant/ flashlight holder. Liam was able to figure out after 2 seconds that my problem was "I need a man" for various things about the house. Ah huh. [I did get him back the next day while cooking lunch, he was unable to put saran wrap over a container of leftovers, so I told him he "needed a woman."]
In addition to gaget and electronic diagnosis, men also like taking on internet -based "research" for their girlfriend/ partner/ wife/ girl they're shagging. And no, I don't mean THAT kind of research. I'm talking safety ratings and fuel economy.
I'm in the market for a new car. While my current car is in relatively good condition considering it's age (think Demi Moore), I'm concerned about it's dependability (think Bruce Willis). With every thump, whirl and swish, I become more convinced that I should turn down the bass and stop listening to Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" and pay more attention to what's going on under the hood/ axel/ splash guard.
Liam was sweet enough to take me out for a test drive on Friday (the cars, not me). I had explained that I already knew which dealership I wanted to deal with (Toyota), and which car I wanted (Corolla Sport in impulse red). Naturally, being the man who's researched (and researched), he didn't want his careful hours of auto anaylsis to be wasted, so he pursuaded to get me to try a few others cars to get a feel for quality and performance.
The first dealership we went to had shoddy customer service. After our test drive, the saleman asked Liam what he thought of the car. Playing it "cool" Liam said that he really really liked it. I, on the other hand was not convinced and the salesman knew it. Silence sayd a lot.
Trying to work his salesman magic, the man offered that Liam's opinion didn't matter as I was the one with the decision making power. Well duh. Obviously he thought we were purchasing a vehicle together, and figured that women hold a lot of weight when it comes to making big ticket purchases. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
The next dealership had over-the-top customer service. The salesman explained every single minor detail about the car - what every button did. The 400 pound salesman was leaning in from the driver's side door (I was sitting in the driver seat trying to remember which button gave the oil readout and which one pumped up the seat). He was two inches from my face the whole time, I was trying not to laugh, wondering whether I should smoke a cigarette afterwards.
We saved the best for last and Toyota did not disappoint. The moment Liam sat in the driver's seat and felt the leather bound steering wheel, he was hooked. I'll never forget his words, "You were so right, this car is THE ONE." We drove up to the Wal-Mart car park and I hopped into the driver's side, feeling a bit less nervous about driving a brand new car. I drove about 5 feet - the length of one parking space (just like in that car commercial) and said, "I like it!" Then we laughed hysterically.
Liam did show me how to measure performance and quality versus value for your money. Plus, he got to reve some engines and drive some cars. But sometimes you just need a woman ;)
Liam offered to check out my stereo system because the sound in the right side speaker was dodgy. He peered around the component, and promptly asked for a flashlight so he could examine the wires and determine the problem. Ofcourse, I was assigned to be the pretty tech assistant/ flashlight holder. Liam was able to figure out after 2 seconds that my problem was "I need a man" for various things about the house. Ah huh. [I did get him back the next day while cooking lunch, he was unable to put saran wrap over a container of leftovers, so I told him he "needed a woman."]
In addition to gaget and electronic diagnosis, men also like taking on internet -based "research" for their girlfriend/ partner/ wife/ girl they're shagging. And no, I don't mean THAT kind of research. I'm talking safety ratings and fuel economy.
I'm in the market for a new car. While my current car is in relatively good condition considering it's age (think Demi Moore), I'm concerned about it's dependability (think Bruce Willis). With every thump, whirl and swish, I become more convinced that I should turn down the bass and stop listening to Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" and pay more attention to what's going on under the hood/ axel/ splash guard.
Liam was sweet enough to take me out for a test drive on Friday (the cars, not me). I had explained that I already knew which dealership I wanted to deal with (Toyota), and which car I wanted (Corolla Sport in impulse red). Naturally, being the man who's researched (and researched), he didn't want his careful hours of auto anaylsis to be wasted, so he pursuaded to get me to try a few others cars to get a feel for quality and performance.
The first dealership we went to had shoddy customer service. After our test drive, the saleman asked Liam what he thought of the car. Playing it "cool" Liam said that he really really liked it. I, on the other hand was not convinced and the salesman knew it. Silence sayd a lot.
Trying to work his salesman magic, the man offered that Liam's opinion didn't matter as I was the one with the decision making power. Well duh. Obviously he thought we were purchasing a vehicle together, and figured that women hold a lot of weight when it comes to making big ticket purchases. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
The next dealership had over-the-top customer service. The salesman explained every single minor detail about the car - what every button did. The 400 pound salesman was leaning in from the driver's side door (I was sitting in the driver seat trying to remember which button gave the oil readout and which one pumped up the seat). He was two inches from my face the whole time, I was trying not to laugh, wondering whether I should smoke a cigarette afterwards.
We saved the best for last and Toyota did not disappoint. The moment Liam sat in the driver's seat and felt the leather bound steering wheel, he was hooked. I'll never forget his words, "You were so right, this car is THE ONE." We drove up to the Wal-Mart car park and I hopped into the driver's side, feeling a bit less nervous about driving a brand new car. I drove about 5 feet - the length of one parking space (just like in that car commercial) and said, "I like it!" Then we laughed hysterically.
Liam did show me how to measure performance and quality versus value for your money. Plus, he got to reve some engines and drive some cars. But sometimes you just need a woman ;)
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Every Body
Once in a while, you just have to stop and ask yourself, "What the fuck?" Because there are some things in this world that just don't add up [Like the continuing popularity of Ron Jeremy].Or, like this binding is-it-a-diaper or-is-it-a-straight-jacket contraption (see right). No doubt, it was designed by a man because there's no way a sista would do this to another sista.
This tighty whitey body cast inspired undergarment is one of many similar lingerie warfare pieces pictured in North American department store catalogues.
Sheesh, remember when the bra and pantey section of the catalogue served to inspire moments of self-lovin' ? Ah, the good old days.
Since when are women expected to eradicate all traces of their curves in exchange for smooth silhouette lines you could bounce a quarter off? There is so much pressure on women to conform. Remember pre-Ben Afflect Jennifer Lopez? You don't? Um ok. How about ahhhhhh.....well, it's happening ok!
Surely men don't want to spend precious minutes (or hours depending on manual deterity) unwrapping a woman who's bound like an Egyptian style mummy. Could you picture a dude wearing one of these to feel better about how he looked in clothes? Exactly.
So women, embrace your curves - all of them. Being comfortable enough to breath is way sexier than elastic-y containment. For the first time ever in a relationship, I actually feel sexy without trying so hard or feeling the need to be perfect and failing that, covering up. Before, I'd always buy a new shirt to wear for a date or exercise like a leg-warmer-wearing maniac. But Liam makes me feel sexy without feeling like I need to have my ta-ta's flanked by low cut v-neck shirts all the time.
Ladies, you don't need to hide what God (or Haagen-Dazs ice cream) gave you. Men, am I right or am I right?
Blog Post Fact: I ate a second helping of cheesey mashed potatoes while writing this post.
[Post Blog Note: I'm not sure what brought on this tirade. Perhaps it's the Vex I'm drinking right now (note to self:Vex makes you an angry albeit literary gifted drunk).]
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Not-So Mellow Yellow
When I first got my braces put on, I was given the option of picking the color of the bands that hold on the wire running across my upper jaw.There was probably about 20 colors to chose from ranging from grey [too boring and/or robotic] to pink [too girlie] to orange [too raver] to blue [too boyish] to green [needs no further explanation]. This is to make braces wearing fun for the children and teenagers of the world, who account for 99.9% of the braces wearing population. The dentist that was doing my braces told me that pink and purple were the most popular colors for girls. Uh huh.
I had to choose wisely because the bands would be on for 4 weeks. Hmmm...let's be logical about this...what's going to match with most of my clothes and accesories. Being the smarty-thinking-ahead kind of gal that I am, I went with white (which for those of you in the "know" realize that white is not an actual color but I digress). My rational was that at least it would look natural, and minimize the visual effects of the grey metal against my teeth.
And it worked. From Wednesday to Saturday, I was told by coworkers, family and friends that you could barely notice I had braces at all. Naturally, I gave myself a hearty pat on the back.
That Saturday I went over to Liam's for supper, etc. Since my teeth were still very tender, he put careful thought into the menu, and what I was actually going to be able to tongue on the roof of my mouth and then swallow.
Liam is a fabulous cook. He likes things spicey - just like me. He decided to cook up a yummy curry, mushroom, pepper and potato dish. It was sooooooo delicious.
After supper I headed to the bathroom to brush/floss/mouthwash [repeat] the gobs of food stuck in my braces. Imagine my shock and horror when I looked in the mirror and noticed that my nice white bands were now a bright glowing neon curry-yellow color.
I brushed and brushed and brushed (all the while trying not to piss myself laughing). Still bright yellow. It reminded me of that episode on Friends when Ross whiten's his teeth and they glow in the dark. Now instead of looking like I had white teeth, I looked like I was a three pack a day smoker. My only consolation was knowing that at least they weren't green (or even much worse, brown).
When I went to the dentist for a quick check up the next week, I ran into the dentist that put on my braces and told her my funny story (of which I'm sure there will be lots over the course of the next two years). Without missing a beat, she said, "Oh didn't I tell you that? And, mustard is just as bad."
Alrighty then. Lesson learned.
Maybe next time I'll just get pink. Then at least I'll look like I have gum disease instead.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
A Face Even A Mother Could Love
Once in a while (though you'd think I'd learn my lesson by now) I am persuaded by the relentless Peter DeWolf to try something new.
His most recent quest is to recruit people to join Facebook. I firmly believe he holds shares or some sort of stake in the Facebook corporation. Free questionable massages perhaps.
I now tenderly refer to Peter as my "dealer" and Facebook is my "drug" of the moment. I only joined tonight and spent a mind boggling two hours like that [snaps fingers] when I could have been typing up a really good blog post. Because after all, let's face it - you all deserve one after all the non-posting that's been going on around here.
So instead of thinking of something clever, I'm left scrambling to crank something out before Dancing With The Stars comes on.
There's a whole lot of stuff I had planned to do tonight. Heck, I was going to be (dare I say...) productive.
Here's just a few of the very important things I was going to tackle BFB (before Facebook):
- 5 loads of laundry
- 1 sink full of dirty dishes
- 2 unruley eyebrows
- 1 drawer of un-color coded knickers
- 2 unmade beds
- 1 ultra-funny blog post
- 1 Glamour magazine
- 3 car quotes
- 1 mini-pedicure
- 60 minutes of quality time with Billy Blanks
- 1 piece of chocolate chunk cheesecake
And here's what I've accomplished:
__________________________
Ok, so I DID eat the cheesecake. Oh well, I guess there's always tomorrow.
His most recent quest is to recruit people to join Facebook. I firmly believe he holds shares or some sort of stake in the Facebook corporation. Free questionable massages perhaps.
I now tenderly refer to Peter as my "dealer" and Facebook is my "drug" of the moment. I only joined tonight and spent a mind boggling two hours like that [snaps fingers] when I could have been typing up a really good blog post. Because after all, let's face it - you all deserve one after all the non-posting that's been going on around here.
So instead of thinking of something clever, I'm left scrambling to crank something out before Dancing With The Stars comes on.
There's a whole lot of stuff I had planned to do tonight. Heck, I was going to be (dare I say...) productive.
Here's just a few of the very important things I was going to tackle BFB (before Facebook):
- 5 loads of laundry
- 1 sink full of dirty dishes
- 2 unruley eyebrows
- 1 drawer of un-color coded knickers
- 2 unmade beds
- 1 ultra-funny blog post
- 1 Glamour magazine
- 3 car quotes
- 1 mini-pedicure
- 60 minutes of quality time with Billy Blanks
- 1 piece of chocolate chunk cheesecake
And here's what I've accomplished:
__________________________
Ok, so I DID eat the cheesecake. Oh well, I guess there's always tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Eb and Flow
Yowza.
Hormones + full moon = one wacky girlfriend
Today it's Wednesday. The universe has returned to normal. Liam and I have returned to normal. He came over after work this morning. We talked, we laughed, we kissed (not necessarily in that order :)
Thank you for your advice, words of support and recommendations of mental health treatment facilities. It was appreciated.
Hormones + full moon = one wacky girlfriend
Today it's Wednesday. The universe has returned to normal. Liam and I have returned to normal. He came over after work this morning. We talked, we laughed, we kissed (not necessarily in that order :)
Thank you for your advice, words of support and recommendations of mental health treatment facilities. It was appreciated.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Fighting Fair
After 6 weeks of passionate bliss Liam and I are having our first fight [or "row" as the English say]. At least I think that's what this is.
Although, I thought I remembered fights being two sided, back and forth, and then lots of making up. I guess we've had two mini-versions of those types of fights which lasted all of 30 seconds (the two sided back and forth part and not necessarily the making out...er, I mean making up part).
This is different. He needs a few days to think. I'm not sure what happened exactly but apparently "it" got him thinking following our phone conversation yesterday morning. I was [admitedly] cranky and appologized in advance for [any] potential attitude. But mostly I was quiet. I didn't want my crankiness to rub off on him. (Yes, I really am THAT thoughtful).
I knew something was up today when I didn't hear from him until mid-afternoon. But I was thinking more along the lines of heavily involved in home renovation project, was in car accident, got deported, or (my favorite) was busy planning something sweet to cheer me up. If only...
And now, I feel like a woman possessed.
Normally, something like this wouldn't bother me. And I've come to the cold hard realization it's because I've never cared this much about any guy. Ever. Period. I love him.
I'm sick to my stomach. I can barely see through the tears to type this. And don't even get me started about the snot dripping from my nose right now.
To top it off the radio is playing songs like "Mad About You" by Belinda Carlisle.
I called, once. I emailed - the first time to say I "understood" (no, no, I don't really) and he could take a few days to think, and the second time to pour my heart out because I can't wait any longer. I fear telling him too much, or worse, not telling him enough.
It would be easier if I knew what was on Liam's mind. After all, I was president of my high school debate club. Perhaps I'm over reacting.
I feel so vulnerable and open. So this is why I usually keep that wall up around me.
I guess I'll just keep refreshing my email screen to see if he's replied. (Nope).
Arg. This sucks.
[Post Blog Update: My soul-baring and email screen refreshing have paid off. Liam is coming over after work. ]
Although, I thought I remembered fights being two sided, back and forth, and then lots of making up. I guess we've had two mini-versions of those types of fights which lasted all of 30 seconds (the two sided back and forth part and not necessarily the making out...er, I mean making up part).
This is different. He needs a few days to think. I'm not sure what happened exactly but apparently "it" got him thinking following our phone conversation yesterday morning. I was [admitedly] cranky and appologized in advance for [any] potential attitude. But mostly I was quiet. I didn't want my crankiness to rub off on him. (Yes, I really am THAT thoughtful).
I knew something was up today when I didn't hear from him until mid-afternoon. But I was thinking more along the lines of heavily involved in home renovation project, was in car accident, got deported, or (my favorite) was busy planning something sweet to cheer me up. If only...
And now, I feel like a woman possessed.
Normally, something like this wouldn't bother me. And I've come to the cold hard realization it's because I've never cared this much about any guy. Ever. Period. I love him.
I'm sick to my stomach. I can barely see through the tears to type this. And don't even get me started about the snot dripping from my nose right now.
To top it off the radio is playing songs like "Mad About You" by Belinda Carlisle.
I called, once. I emailed - the first time to say I "understood" (no, no, I don't really) and he could take a few days to think, and the second time to pour my heart out because I can't wait any longer. I fear telling him too much, or worse, not telling him enough.
It would be easier if I knew what was on Liam's mind. After all, I was president of my high school debate club. Perhaps I'm over reacting.
I feel so vulnerable and open. So this is why I usually keep that wall up around me.
I guess I'll just keep refreshing my email screen to see if he's replied. (Nope).
Arg. This sucks.
[Post Blog Update: My soul-baring and email screen refreshing have paid off. Liam is coming over after work. ]
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