Ass-Hole

Remember what happened to my last [and by last I mean only] pair of pants?

Score! I was unpacking my winter clothes [it's getting a bit frosty north of the border] and found my light brown cords. I thought I'd given them away last winter because they are a bit big. And by a bit big I mean I could pull them down over my hips when zippered and buttoned at the waist.

But that doesn't matter because I was back to being the proud owner of one pair of pants. One pair of pants that must be worn with a belt.

Wore them to take my son to school for his first day of grade 5. Ran into former hunky high school classmate. Was told I looked amazing.

Wore them to work. Was told pants really highlight best asset (the super booty).

Washed them. Ironed them. Put them on for another redhead-next-door adventure. And that's when I saw it...a hole in the ass of my pants. To be more specific, another frey in the ass of my pants. I mean, how is this possible? Am I THAT hard on the ass of my pants that I'm wearing out the material?

So I was late for work because I had to concock a new outfit dejours.

Consulted with coworker Mary (aka Undercover Mother) about said ass-hole. As weird as it sounds, I quizzed her whether she has noticed me wiggling about in my chair during meetings which could account for freying. Mary advised that was probably something she would notice. Considering the frey location (about half-way up the butt cheek along the crack) I would have to slouch down before commencing any chair wiggling which I'm guessing would be quite noticeable.

She did suggest that maybe shirt-less lawn mowing neighbour Chip was breaking into my house and rubbing the bum of my pants [the rest of this sentence is censored] and did elicit a response of "Ew" from yours truly. In unrelated news, Mary is missing her pork chop broiler pan. We suspect it's the undetectable work of Chip.

Perhaps instead of throwing out pants, I should invest in some sturdy yet fashionable pant patches for the cords and the countless ass-worn pants that will undoubtedly follow.

[Post Post Update: I bought 3 brand spanking new pairs of pants. And I'll be keeping my eye(s) on them].

A Picture's Worth 3 Words

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

The hike took us hundreds of feet/meters/felt like miles...up. And then down. And back up. Etc etc etc. 6 whole kilometers worth.

We did pack: 2 liters of water (which had to be rationed) because the hike was actually 6km to the waterfall and 6km back, and 12 condoms.

We didn't pack: batteries (keep reading), bug spray (probably have west nile now), sun screen, a change of clothes (sweated our own body weight worth), and food (save for one banana and strawberry runner's gel pack which had similar consistency to ejaculation with the same salty after taste).

As all newly minted couples do, we took many photos during our trek (see above, which we will refer to as, exhibit A). The scenery was breathtaking [and I mean more than just my décolletage].

Unfortunately the camera batteries died as we reached the waterfall. So now we have vowed to one day go back just to get pictures of us by the cascading water. Or perhaps a cardboard cut out will do.

Paul downloaded the pics today and sent them to me. And that's when I discovered a picture can be worth three words...I look pregnant.

Ugh. (See exhibit B, above)

Nothing like seeing yourself looking as though your 3-4 months pregnant to spurn you into a major workout fest.

10 (+2) Things I Did This Week

1. Officially went back to being a redhead
2. Officially got a boyfriend (aka Paul)
3. Renewed membership at LaSenza
4. Spent half of funds in bank account at LaSenza using renewed membership on purple/lilac/fuchsia items which will yield a higher return than interest bearing savings account
5. Sorted through knicker drawer, and tossed out unsightly unmentionables to make room for new purple-y purchases
6. Helped sister ring in her 29th birthday
7. Attempted to take trunk load of bottles (1 and a half years worth) to bottle exchange in another province to avoid looking like alcoholic only to discover said bottle exchange was closed. Left bottles for brother-in-law to take to said bottle exchange possibly looking like an alcoholic.
8. Enjoyed black-tie pizza date with said official boyfriend which lead to...
9. Enjoyed bottle of white wine with said official boyfriend which lead to...
10. Enjoyed modeling LaSenza purchases which lead to...
11. Enjoyed "return on investment" (multiple times)
12. Came up with brilliant and plausible excuses as to why I'm walking funny like "pulled a hamstring playing ball" which is...true. Sheesh! What were you thinking?

Blog This

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

He even knows about this blog and is not going to read it. FYI: Paul would have chosen the name "Nick" if he had the choice. This is funny because I did consider the name Nick but opted not to because I also have a friend named Nick.

I definitely come up with post ideas when we're on the phone or out together. He's very familiar with the phrase "I need to write THAT down, it is SO a blog post."

Not that I would mind if he read 95% of the posts, after all, they're quite funny albeit quirky and some slightly neurotic. But I certainly don't want him reading what I've written about previous exploits, like here and here, and who could forget this humdinger. And I certainly don't want to start censoring what I write or removing anything I have written. Heck, even my mum reads my blog and I don't censor for her [Hi mum!].

I'm not sure if I could be so respectful if the roles were reversed. My curiosity might/could/most definitely get the better of me. I blame this partially on my journalism background, partially on my being nosy.

So I get to keep this guilty little pleasure all to myself. But I think I will share this post with Paul, after all, it was written for him.

Naughty Girl

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

It wasn't so much the singing that bothered me. It was what he was singing. Beyonce. "I'll be your naughty girl..." in a voice two octaves above his normal 10-year-old-boy range.

Never one to panic (or over react)...for the duration of our morning commute I blasted ACDC's "TNT" which he also sang along to. I encouraged some slight head banging and a rock-on hand gesture. I did stop short of pulling over the car for him to beat up a neighborhood kid jumping rope.

I'll make a man out of him yet.

Murphy's Law, #1

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

I was ironing my favorite pair of pants this morning for work. They are also my only pair of pants. I'm not really a "pants" kind of girl, so I have about 12 skirts and 1 pair of pants. Ok, ok and 3 pairs of jeans [although 1 of those pairs of jeans is too big so I can't wear them, 1 pair is too high waisted so I can't wear them, and 1 pair would make the Pope's jaw drop - I wear them]. So technically I only have 1 pair of jeans, and 1 pair of pants. The pants I was ironing.

I get the front of said pants all pressed. Actually, I was in a rush so "pressed" was putting it nicely but I wouldn't exactly look like I rolled out of bed in them and came to work either. So I flipped said pants over to press the back side and that's when I saw it. The frey. The frey that was actually a big freaking hole in my 1 pair of pants. The 1 pair of pants I was going to wear today. The 1 pair of pants that goes with the pink lace blouse I also picked out to wear.

I briefly debated wearing the pants anyway with a pair of non-attention-getting panties underneath. After all, would anyone really even notice? Ofcourse they would. And besides, I don't own any non-attention-getting panties.

So I had to wear...what else, a skirt. I picked a subtle light citrus yellow cotton shirt and a black skirt with my red flats and headed out to work where I was joined by 3 other coworkers, all dressed in light citrus yellow shirts and black skirts. As if we were part of some secret "bee-fabulous" society [though naturally, if such a secret society existed, I would be President].

I ended up working an hour late to bank some time so I can leave early on Friday to get ready for my date with Paul.

By the time I left, I was famished, but had to make a stop at the grocery store to pick up a few necessities [i.e. tampons and salad dressing - both of which I was completely out of and in desperate need of. Like ASAP because in 2 minutes the crimson hoover dam is going to break].

I get to the checkout. There's only one customer in front of me. And the cashier is ringing through his last item. I put my items up on the checkout. The middle aged guy is paying for his groceries with his debit card. The middle aged guy starts asking questions about how much the noddles, bananas and eggs were. He's sure the eggs weren't $4.54. He wants her to check the price. He knows the price he paid was wrong. The cashier is trying to explain that she's already processed his order, so if he goes to the customer service desk, they can check the price and refund his money if there's been an error.

But the middle aged keeps standing there. Talking about the price. I turn to him and say, "Excuse me sir, but unless you want to be standing in a puddle of blood in 0.2...take your ****ing sales receipt to the customer service desk and they'll do your price check there." In retrospect, he probably thought I meant I was going to beat him up. Either way, that's how you get a line moving.

Ok, ok. Technically I didn't say that to the middle aged guy. But I tried really hard to concentrate and use my mind to telepathically say it to him.

I hoped in my car. The sun was shining, the sun roof was open. When I started the car, I inadvertently startled some seagulls. It scared the shit right out of one of them. Right into my open sunroof.

BomChickaWahWah - Part 2

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

Date #2 was equally as perfect. Chinese food (had Combo A - the sweet n' sour chicken balls, chicken fried rice and egg roll). Arcade car races (I kicked ass) and air hockey (he kicked ass) as we waited for our turn at glow-in-the-dark mini golf (I lost by 1 point). Followed by a movie rental (Chris Rock's "I Really Love My Wife") and white wine (Yellow Tail).

I had the opportunity to tour [aka sleep over at] his condo in the city instead of driving an hour and a half back to my place in the wee hours of the morning. I told Paul I'm now completely spoiled because he made me coffee and cooked a delicious bacon and scrambled egg breakfast for me to enjoy in bed. Although I felt guilty I was lazying around in bed while he braved the bacon grease shirtless so I hauled my cute ass out to the kitchen.

Next on the dating agenda: the Drive-In.

BomChickaWahWah

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

Last night we had our first date.

Pre-date getting ready: Consumed a half a glass of wine to calm flip flopping stomach. It was humid out so my hair was doing this Sideshow Bob impersonation. Had to flatten my curls and opt for straight hair. Changed mind over flirty date outfit. Paul's a "legs and back" guy but my best assets are the T&A. Decided to go for a strapless/sleeveless/ shows off neck, shoulders and part of back top with my new Esprit jeans that look so good I never want to take them off unless... The outfit was complete with the addition of 3+ inch black suede stiletto heels.

Paul picked me up at my house with flowers in hand (daisies - my favorite). Bonus points earned = 20. Plus he smelled so good. Bonus points earned = 20.

We headed to the local Irish Pub for some eats. The food was good (a munchie platter and BBQ chicken pizza). I found the chicken wings to be unusually spicy (a probable side effect from my detox earlier in the week) so I tore through my glass of water and glass of wine pretty quickly while trying to appear lady-like. Paul smiled and asked if I wanted some more water (all I could do was nod) and he went to find our waitress. Bonus points earned (for taking charge) = 15.

I took him for a walking "tour of the town". As we were popping in and out of shops, we heard the sound of live music coming from the waterfront. We followed, and took our seats (front row, center). It was one girl on the stage with her red guitar - Jenn Grant. Live music can be hit or miss but Jenn = amazing. We hooted after every song. Pulled the "I'm cold" move (though I was cold) and was rewarded with a nice strong arm around me. Bonus points earned (for picking up on verbal clues) = 30.

After her set was over, I had to get her CD and got her to sign it. Jenn asked who she should make it our to, I didn't want to impose, so I said, "Oh just write that you are fabulous because you are." In retrospect, I guess I should have been clearer that Jenn Grant should write that Jenn Grant is fabulous because she is. So now the insert on my CD says "You guys are fabulous, xo Jenn" and I feel like a big asshole.

Back on our walking tour, we decided to stop at a little cafe where they make the best cheesecake (we opted for a piece of "Hugs and Kisses"). I had a coffee (almond amaretto) and Paul had a latte. We talked and laughed some more over the CD misunderstanding. I suggested "To the two hooters in the front" would have been a funnier request and then realized the double meaning. I had to write that down (in case I forgot) but didn't have a pen. So Paul tracked down one from our waitress. Bonus points earned (for taking charge of a girl's needs even if that need is only a pen) = 1,000,000.

On our way back to the car I took my heels off and walked back to the barefoot. The sidewalk became really rocky so Paul gave me a piggy back ride. We were almost there and I asked, "Am I getting to heavy?" He answered, "What are you...only 110 pounds. No, you're not getting heavy." Bonus points earned (because I am not 110 pounds) = 50.

We went back to my place to listen to the CD and play Scrabble (times two, FYI I won both games). Bonus points earned (for possibly throwing the game because he knows I'm competitive) = 10.

I ended up breaking my first date rule. Paul was aware of my rule before our date, and for the record did vocalize he wanted to remain a gentleman and respect my boundaries. Bonus points earned (for at least pretending to respect my boundaries, although he was quite genuine about it so I think he was actually trying to) = 30.

But he caved pretty quickly after I gave him the green light.

After he left, I was thinking about our evening. There was not one time I was let down or disappointed. There was no thinking "If only he had of," or "I wish he had of thought to". He did it all. It was a perfect date. And I can't remember the last time that happened.

Detox: Day 4

Escaped from prison tonight.

But earlier today, 1200: Went to lunch with 3 of the girls from work. My sentence: to eat a salad (only) in the local pub amongst all that yummylicious greasylicious food.

Since I had already cheated this morning with a Kit Kat (it was a singles - that's practically the size of a peppermint!), I knew I had to stick to my detox regimen at lunch. Besides, there were witnesses. Must. Keep. Up. Appearances.

There were three equally-as-bland salad choices on the menu: Caesar, garden, and spinach. Whopdeedo. I opted for the ever-colorful spinach salad. A pained look came over my face when I told the waitress to hold the bacon bits, and I'd take the dressing on the side. [Ironically the last time I asked for something on the side, it involved the opposite of dressing].

The waitress asked if I wanted to add chicken for $2.50. I answered "I wish". She probably thought I was broke and couldn't afford the chicken. Ok, I'm broke too. But not THAT broke.

While my lunch mates consumed Greek pizza and the special-of-the-day mussels, I picked and chewed and swallowed my wilted tasteless mushrooms-were-decomposing mushy-eggs no-red-onions spinach salad. Even the dressing was bland. Like mayo but with even less taste. With tasteless green herbs in it. At least I hope they were herbs. Willpower = 1, Brain = 0

1300: Back at work, I was so disgusted I couldn't even face my herbal tea. Why was I doing this? Oh yeah, because for countless weeks I was shoving everything in my piehole. You won the argument this time brain. Willpower = 1, Brain = 1

1700: Back at home, I begrudgingly ate my steamed veggies and brown rice. Why was I continuing to do this? Sure, I wanted to cleanse my system from the weeks of abuse. Sure, I wanted to get rid of that sluggish feeling I just couldn't shake. Sure, I wanted to lose a few pounds before my next date. But I'd accomplished all of that (except maybe the weightloss, though I'm not entirely sure because I don't own a scale). Why keep torturing myself? Willpower = 2, Brain = 1

So I made the decision to ease my way back into eating real food. To celebrate, I made a cup of tea (hello caffeine!) after I eased my way back into more ice cream. Tonight I plan on enjoying a half glass of wine and cheese/crackers combo while watching Big Brother.

I really have no willpower when it comes to food.

It's a good thing I have willpower when it comes to other things. Like booze, shopping and men. Well, three out of four ain't bad.

Detox: Day 3

Tonight, I cheated.

But only a little teeny tiny bit. So, it probably doesn't even technically count. Right?

I couldn't resist. It was calling to me, "Erika, lick me. My creamy goodness will melt in your mouth. Devour every sinful inch of me. Mmmm...that's it. Just like that."

Stupid talking ice cream.

Detox: Day 1 and 2

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

To accurately describe my experience with detox (for readers who have not had this unique experience), I decided to write a little poem. It's called "What the F*** Was I Thinking".

[Clears throat] *Ahem*

What the F*** Was I Thinking
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ug. Huhhhhhhh.
My head's going to f***ing explode.
I threw up and it came out my nose.
A week without coffee, what was I thinking?
Detox really blows [literally].

Answering Your Burning Questions, #5

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

He writes: "How do you recommend approaching women like you who run or go to the gym? (By the way, I am a charter pilot, we pilots have a hard time meeting women)."

My answer: With caution.

It's hard to approach a woman at the gym. We're usually focused on the task at hand and in quite precarious poses (on the pilates ball, doing a dead lift, etc). And we naturally assume that guys are ogling our tits and asses. Therefore, guys who do approach us at the gym seem kind of creepy (though I'm sure you are the exception to the rule Phil ;) Besides, we want to get in and out without guys noticing that we're not wearing makeup, have a wedgie (or worse...camel toe) and a bad case of boob sweat.

It's much easier to approach a woman runner (from behind) and say something complimentary like "You've got a great pace". But only if she doesn't have an MP3 player or else she might mistakenly assume you're a mugger and go Taebo on your ass. And naturally, we'll still assume that you were ogling our asses.

It's a dating jungle gym out there. There's no "right way" anymore when it comes to dating and mating. There is however the "gentlemanly way", the "jerkoff way" and the "have been in prison too long" way. I find being irresistibly charming and direct always works.

Hope this helps Phil!

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].

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".

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.

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.

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!

Karma's a Bitch

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

Whether you enjoy every second devouring that piece of er...chocolate, or spit it out because it's not caramel (your favorite) affects the next bite of the next piece of chocolate.

Before you toss it in the trash you owe the truth to that little (or big) piece of not-the-flavour-you-had-in-mind chocolate. Afterall, chocolate have feelings too. [Just go with it ok].

I do try to tell the truth (in a not-so-harsh way) really I do. I have hurt many a man's feeling over my dating career. And they mine. But sometimes, occasionally, I chicken out. And you know what, it gives me the worst feeling. I like to call that feeling dating karma.

I know that my actions or in-actions/non-truths/non-talking will come back to bite me in the ass. And unfortunately, not in the literal sense. But sometimes I can't help myself.

My latest victim was Ben. He emailed me late Monday afternoon following his 5 days away sans-communicado. His email was light and airy, asked about my weekend and whether I was playing softball that night. Ben made no mention of why he didn't call. And no apology for not calling. He was testing the waters.

I didn't even bother to reply, I just let the email sit in my inbox. Not because I was mad. But because I felt that we both wasting each other's time. He had the looks, the witty, but had zero passion for life. I like someone who can think outside of the box. Clearly all Ben had on his mind was the *ahem* box.

What could I say without sounding like an asshole? "Dear Ben, I'm just not that into you. PS: I took the liberty of signing you up for a "how to please a woman in 3 easy steps" class."

I was hoping Ben would call me that night when I didn't reply and I could at least tell him over the phone. But he didn't. He willingly accepted my silence. True, I could should have called him. But I didn't. And now, I've got some bad dating karma coming my way.

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

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]

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.

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]

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].

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.

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.

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.

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."

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!

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.

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."

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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

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.

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.

Top 10...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.

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.

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.

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: "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).

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!]