Office Prank #1: Anal Glaucoma

On Tuesday morning I rec'd the following email from my friend Charlene.

A women calls her boss one morning and tells him that she is staying home because she is not feeling well. "What's the matter?" he asks. "I have a case of anal glaucoma," she says in a weak voice. "What the hell is anal glaucoma?" "I can't see my ass coming into work today..."

Finding it completely hilarious, I printed it off and posted it outside my cubicle for my coworker's enjoyment.

Debbie, who works in the cubicle across from me, sent the staff an email suggesting we all call in sick tomorrow from anal glaucoma. Rowan was going to be the only supervisor in (the rest would be away on training) so he would be the one to receive all our messages. He comes into the office every morning by 8 o'clock, so the voicemails would have to be left before that time. Debbie directed staffers to my cubicle to read more about this "condition" in case not everyone had the opportunity to check it out (were busy working perhaps?). Ofcourse, we were all planning on actually coming in to the office, but we wanted Rowan to sweat for a bit.

This plan was so ingenious I laughed all afternoon. Then I laughed in the car on the drive home. Not a regular laugh either. The head-thrown-back laugh so other commuters though I might possibly be off-balance. It was hard to get to sleep that night, you know, from all the laughing.

[the next morning...]

I attempted to call Rowan's voicemail. I called three times. And hung up three times. Because I was still laughing my *** off. Then I wrote a script, to make it easier:

Script: [in a weak voice] Hi Rowan, It's Erika. I can't come into work today. I have a really bad case of anal glaucoma. I was diagnosed yesterday with anal glaucoma. The doctor said it's going to be a really bad year for anal glaucoma. There's a really good article about this condition outside my cubicle, if you want to learn more.

This did not help with the not-laughing part. I looked at the clock - I was going to be late if I didn't leave now. I decided I could send the message from my voicemail at work. I just couldn't let Rowan see me before I did it.

[at work...]

Debbie jumps into my cubcile - "Did you do it?" I explained what happened and then assured her I was going to send my voicemail right now. Debbie had already left her message and was remaining incognito. She had even gathered some intell: Rowan's red light was still flashing on his phone, meaning he had not checked any of his messages. Hmmm...the whole prank could possibly tank if we didn't take action.

I decided there were two choices: Choice #1: I could go over in person (hold my *** for emphasis) and do my script. Pros: Would be hilarious and I would go down as acting legend. Cons: Could burst out laughing and all our planning would be for nothing, be the victim of "good going" comments from staffers and possibly be hit with random flying objects around the office. Choice #2: Send high priority email to Rowan. Pros: Quick and could laugh as much as I like. Cons: ???

So I went with the email. Six staffers crowded into my cubicle as I typed out the following email:

Hi Rowan,

I'm so sick I can't even stand up.

I started feeling sick yesterday. There were a couple of people at work who also thought they might be coming down with this too. I went to the doctor last night and he said I have anal glaucoma. And that it's going to be a bad year for it.

Can I go home?

Erika

We were laughing so loud I was sure Rowan would hear us from his cubcile across the office. Two seconds later, I received his reply:

I'm not going to ask about the sickness, there's a joke in there somewhere. If you're sick, go home.

Rowan saw me about 10 minutes later and asked why I wasn't on my way home. So I had to explain it all to him.

I consider myself to be quite crafty when it comes to pulling pranks. I successfully pulled them on Marco (and vice versa) countless of times. So I'm not used to this feeling of prank failure.

Ah...revenge shall be mine!

Undiscovered Dating Techniques #3: The Blogmance

[Cue the violins]

Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler brought us the romance.

Big Brother Allstars Will and Boogie brought us the bromance, the showmance, and the less poetically homance.

I'm pleased to bring you [wait for it]...the blogmance. Ta Da!

The concept of the blogmance is cutting edge dating technology. Observe.

Have you ever read a blog? Well, ofcourse you have, you're reading one right now. But not just any blog. I'm talking about one that is so witty, so carefully crafted, so bloody brilliant, you're left amazed. **Ah hem**

You read every day, without fail. You make comments, without fail. Ok, maybe you don't comment on the slightly boring posts about boy bands and sports but everything else is fair game.

You check out your fav blogger's profile a few times (ok, dozens). Then you start to wonder what this person is like in their regular non-blogging life. You Google them. Then you wonder how some crazy **** like that ended up on Google.

You start to think emailing them might be a good idea. You pose a question, just to make it seem like you're interested in the answer. But you're not really. Unless ofcourse it's to ask if they like to "do the fondue" or about their knickers. Or maybe the Knicks. Because even though you don't fancy basketball, they do.

Then they email you back. Score! You could be onto something here. So, you reply to their reply to your inquiry. Your mind is all swirly with possibilities and low blood sugar. Hotmail must add extra servers to keep up with all the emailing activity. And that's just for the ones you're sending. Actually, you're doing more than your fair sharing of emailing. You shouldn't be doing that.

Wait a minute...oh no. Oh. No.

You, my friend, have become a Blocker [Blogger + Stalker = Blocker]. Now why did you have to go and do that for? I can't coach you on how to have a blogmance if you're going to act like that. Put down the boiling pot of rabbits. Back away from the stove.

Perhaps it's best to leave this technique to the professionals :)

[Note: Let's take care of a little thing I like to call copyright enfringement. The hillarious faux romance novel cover on the left can be found at www.worldoflongmire.com/features/romance_novels/

Thsssexy Like Cindy Brady

Yessterday was D day. No, not THAT D day. The other one...the day I went to the dentisth. And, no that was not a sspelling error. Neither wass that.

My brand sspanking new sshiney plastic and wire oral applicancess has given me a lisp. Yess folks, I'm the proud owner of my very own sspeech impediment. Ssuper.

It's alsso made people not want to ssthand in front of me when I sspeak, probably due to the exsthreme amount of ssalvia I'm creating and ssubssequently projecting.

I desided to write thiss blog exsactly as I would ssay it. Which is quite hard come to think of it so I'll stop now.

In addition to my new hardware, I'm also consuming a bevy of vitamins and muscle relaxers. So at least now I'm somewhat calm about my lisp. In fact, I'm so relaxed it's slowing down my typing quite a bit. See how slow that was?

It's not just the drugs that are affecting me though. People are treating me differently. My coworkers think my new way of speaking is "cute" and "adorable" like Cindy Brady. Sure, Cindy might have been cute till she opened her mouth, then she was just plain ****ing annoying. I'm not a snitcher, I just tell it like it is!

Strangers just stare at me with this look. You know the one...big sympathic eyes, tilted head to the right. Yeah, like that one you're doing right now. It's given me a new appreciation for speech imperfections. My dentist assures me it will go away. When it does, and I meet someone who still has their speech impediment, I won't point and laugh at the dorks like I used to. No, I'll give them a hug and say, "Some day, some one will love you, you dork."

For me, it's not just about the variation of speech in my effort to realign my jaw. I can't eat anything hard. Actually, even soft things are challenging. It took me 60 minutes to eat 3/4 of a biscuit because you can't chew, but just mush things with your tongue. Possible side-effect: unplanned weight loss.

I guess I'll have to add "Realign Jaw" to my list. Unless ofcourse, I missed the episode where Cindy Brady gets asked out on a date. Then again, she was only ten on the show. But still. In the words of Cindy, "I'm cool but no boy ever calls me for a soda." You said it Cindy, you said it.

Sweet Dreams

Marsha Norman once said "Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you."

Here's an illustration my soul passed along. I think it's trying to tell me something.

Perhaps that I should stick to writing and not drawing...

Or maybe that I look good in the color purple!

No, no...it must be that I should take up carpentry ;)

Literally, it may mean that the last man on Earth may not have any hands. Which would be a shame. How else is he going to help tear down those walls I've built?

What kind of illustrations is your soul drawing?

Bye Bye Miss Canadian Pie

On Thursday, one of my dearest coworkers, "Aunt Margie", retired. We held a proper high tea, complete with silver serving tea set and real china cups and saucers to commemorate the occasion (we're also having dinner and drinks at a [formerly fancy] local hotel at the end of October so this was to hold us over until then).

Any time there is a special event, a sign up sheet is posted in the kitchen, for staffers to commit to what yummy things they're going to bring. The unwritten rule: bonus points if it's homemade.

I always manage to rustle up something from my recipe box. And Thursday was no exception. In between helping Aidan with his class project on mosquitos, doing 3 loads of laundry, and tidying up the house, I made an apple pie. Nothing says yummy sweetness like homemade apple pie. And just to be a bit fancy, I cut a star in the centre of the top layer of crust, worked my crust pattern making magic on the outter rim of the pie and sprinkled sugar on top. You know, for that extra bit of sparkle.

Rowan, is usually the first to sample my wares, and always seems somewhat surprised and amused that I made something so perfect. He always asks, "Who made this?" in between mouthfuls when he knows full well it was me. Rowan then tells me it's "Not bad" before having another piece. I've become good at reading between the lines.

After the tea, I was picking up my mail at reception, when my coworker Debbie said that she only attempted to make a pie once and it was a complete and utter disaster. Then she turned and asked, "Erika, is there anything you're not good at?" Without missing a beat, I said, "Yes, marriage." She laughed.

But think about it. Apple pie, even if it's freshly out of the oven, doesn't keep you warm in bed at night. It just gets really mushy. Apple pie doesn't comfort you. It doesn't listen to you when you need to vent (Actually, pie might listen but it doesn't answer back. And if it does, you've got bigger problems my friend).

For now, I'll stick to what I'm good at. But maybe one day, I'll be good at everything. ;)

I guess practice makes perfect.

Random Compliment, #3

On Wednesday, I went to work as per usual (yes, there's nothing wrong with my work ethic).

I was dressed very smartly, as per usual; wearing my black short-sleeved fitted cropped blazer, buttoned, with a pink lace cami underneath and my light lemon yellow 1950's era-esque flared skirt. To top off my outfit, the piece de la resistance...my fav pair of black stiletto boots. I looked quite smashing.

My coworker, Rowan, was on his way to an important meeting on the other side of the province. But he made a point of telling me how great I looked before he left.

Ok, he didn't actually say I looked great. But he did say, and I quote, "If there ever was a Lady Zorro, you would be it." And his eyes went kind of sparkly when he said it too.

Not exactly the look I was going for (I didn't even have my sword with me!) but I took it as a compliment.

I could never lay claim to being the original "Lady Zorro", that's Catherine Zeta Jones' territory. Perhaps Rowan didn't see The Mask of Zorro. I can't blame him for not seeing The Legend of Zorro (Antonio what were you thinking?). But Ms. Zeta Jones is sexy. And I guess that's where Rowan was going with his compliment. Not about Catherine Zeta Jones. About me.

Career Theory: Providing Answers to Life's Awkward Social Questions

This week I travelled to the Hub city. And that can only mean one thing [Ok, maybe two]: I wanted to put my LaSenza discount membership card to good use, or for some training for work. It might not be an either/or situation, or it might. I'll exercise my right to maintain a bit of mystery. And perhaps a bit of dignity.

I'm an employment counsellor. Which is much like being a regular sort of counsellor in that you hear people complain, er..."share" a lot but you don't get paid quite as well. Not by the hour at least. Which is much like being a street walker. But I digress...

Sometimes the sharing is about their careers, or lack thereof. Other times you're privy to TMI, like the warts they got "down there" because their husband's extra-martial conquest gave him a burning, itching, festering parting gift. Often, you're the only one this person has to talk to. Probably for good reason. I can imagine it is hard to maintain composure for a non-professional, much less keep down what you ate for breakfast, while hearing about such things. And the mental images. Oh my *** the mental images. Hold me tight Bruno.

This week's session was a refresher course on basic career theory. I won't bore you with the in's and outs, unless ofcourse you are on the edge of your seats in anticipation (in which case, email me and I'll divulge all my worldly knowledge. Or at least the part I took notes on).

Blah blah blah. I wasn't paying attention when it hit me; the server who was refilling our water pitcher gave me a knock on the back of the head "accidentally" with her tray. Ok, now I was awake. And bleeding. Which is good (well not the bleeding part, but the awake part). Because what was about to happen, was big. Monumental. We're talking Superman versus Batman monumental.

Our faciliatator reminded us, it's all in how you frame something. No, not that way. This way. For someone who is unemployed, they feel better if they say they are "between jobs". And there it was. So simple. The key to handling life's awkward social questions. The answer to the question I get asked over and over, and over.

Question (usually from insensitive smug marrieds): "Why are you single?"
Answer (usually from me, unless I feel like using Ed the no-nonsense sock puppet to speak on my behalf): "I'm between husbands right now."

Absolutely. Bloody. Brilliant!

And applicable to other "don't deserve a decent answer to that question" questions.

Question: "Why does that dog always **** on my leg?"
Answer: "I'm between dog trainers right now."

Question: "What's that smell?"
Answer: "I'm between showers right now."

[Note: These are only examples. I do not have a dog. And I do shower. Twice daily.]

The beauty of this framing is, there's no way the questioner can come back from that. End of questions.

Question askers = 0
Erika = 1

[Note: linen napkins are very absorbent and can assist with superficial head wounds.]

The Amazing Race Eh

Season 10 of the ultimate (ULTIMATE) top notch show has begun - the Amazing Race. And I can't help but plead my case to cutie pie Phil Keoghan to allow Canadians to enter the throws of non-stop action adventure. I'd consider "settling" and be a contestant on Fear Factor but lost-in-your-eyes Joe Rogan doesn't permit North of the Borders. Come to think of it, sweet cheeks Jeff Probst doesn't want to cosy up to a Canuck during a friendly game of Survivor either.

What's with the Hoser ban? I'm sensing a conspiracy amongst American networks. And there can only be one reason for keeping Canadians out in the reality TV cold...because we'd win. Every time.

Sure, the game wouldn't be the same if the country that coined the loonie and toonie were given all-access passes. But think of what we would bring to the show! Just think...[I feel a list coming on]

Top Reasons Why Canadians Should be Contestants on The Amazing Race:
- Endearing Canadian accent
- Ability to convert from metric to imperial (or SI) system and then back to metric again
- Great sense of direction and map reading. Bonus: can point out location of America on an unmarked map
- Possible sponsors would include Tim Hortons - free Timbits for everyone!
- Drag a** because of gained weight from free Timbits
- Renowned for politeness. Examples include: "I'm sorry" (even when we know it's not our fault!), "no - you go first to the pitstop", "don't highjack our plane please" etc.
- Ability to speak many languages: English, Acadian French, Quebec French, and Newfoundlander which will come in handy when travelling to...er, Canada.
- Supply of Canadian flag patches for backpacks
- Unique storeytelling ability, "This one time at Rubber Band Camp..."

And if that wasn't enough to convince you Phil, perhaps you could make an exception just for me? If you say "I'm Erika" really fast, it sounds like you're saying America.

Coincidence? Not bloody likely. I take size small in a t-shirt btw ;)

Sorry Ma'am, We Don't Sell That

This has got to be some sort of record. It's been an exhausting two+ weeks of online dating and I have decided to delete my profile.

Hmmm, why you ask? Well could it be that...
a) I've met someone absolutely delightful
b) A computer virus has been unleased destroying hard drives of online daters, so I'm taking evasive action ASAP
c) Have quickly realized there are no fish worth catching in the online sea
d) Am accepted into the seminary

Yes, it's "c". In the words of Undercover Mother's daughter Bridget, it's like looking for Filet Mingnon at the corner store. They just don't sell it.

Besides, it was just for fun. And it was becoming quite the opposite of fun...work perhaps? I have no problem attending functions by myself but thought how nice it would be to have someone spin me around the dance floor. Have you ever tried to spin yourself? It's quite tricky really.

Pity party, table for one?

First up is my end-of-the-softball-season dance at the end of the month. Cost = $5 per couple. Coach said to make sure to bring our husbands/boyfriends.

Me: "What if you don't have a boyfriend?"
Coach: "You don't have a boyfriend? You don't have a boyfriend?" [No, there was no echo, he really asked me twice]
Me: "No."
Coach: "What's wrong with you that you don't have a boyfriend?"
Me: "Er, if I knew that I'd have a boyfriend."
Coach: "You don't have a boyfriend? Well, if you don't have a boyfriend, $2 for you."

I have a feeling that single men do not have to go through this type of humiliation.

Random Compliment, #2

Yesterday morning, I spent an hour in my dentist's chair only to find out my brand spanking new oral appliances (one for day, one for night) didn't fit properly. In fact, my daytime appliance got stuck on my lower teeth. And since I am sporting a pair of french tip fake nails, I couldn't be of any assistance. In fact, this is one of many times during this week I needed assistance because of my nails (starting a new roll of tape for my dispenser, folding socks, and zipping up my pants to name a few). But they look fabulous.

My dentist is part of some cutting edge stuff when it comes to minimizing the effects of TMJ. If this doesn't work, I'll have to get braces. It's my teenage nightmare coming true, 15 years later. Only worse. Braces in high school are common; a fair share of nerds, geeks and uber band geeks get them. But women, single women at that, single sexy women at the age of 30... name one. Ok, possibly me.

Apparently, it isn't bad enough that my current night appliance slightly resembles the plastic mouth guard worn by sports participants like boxers and hockey players. It makes it quite difficult to talk providing a slight lisp, and ups the drool factor when sleeping. Painting a pretty picture eh? Needless to say, I've only ever had one boyfriend I felt comfortable enough wearing it around. And, he was usually asleep when I put it in. Strangely enough my last boyfriend had the exact same mouth guard; at first I thought it was a sign that he might be "the one". [Note to self: plastic mouth accessories are not relationship indicators].

Back in my dentist's chair...

My dentist is telling me they'll have to take another mold of my upper jaw, when in walks an old man. He's completely starting at me (in his defence I did have on my very flatering pink v-neck long-sleeve clingy cotton t-shirt).

Old Man: "Wow, you are beautiful! I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. "
Me: [blushing] "Why thank you" [I smile]
Old Man: "Are you married?"
Me: "No, I'm divorced."
Old Man: "What the hell was wrong with your husband? You're beautiful. If I was 90 years younger, I'd be on you. You're so beautiful."
Me: "Um, thanks, you're sweet." [and slightly perverted]
Dentist: "Now [Old Man's Name] you've been married for 64 years, you don't want to start getting into trouble now."
Old Man: "Are you kidding, look at her. Why do you get all the pretty ones Doctor? Must be your sex appeal." [chuckles]

If you knew my dentist, you would also chuckle. Sex appeal = zero. I think it's partly due to the the large wooly-esque caterpillars, er....eyebrows he sports.

The old man proceeded to ask me questions about where I was from and left after giving me a Worthens candy; I saved it (you know, in case it had love potion #9 in it or something). Then I thanked him as he'd made my day. Because truthfully, old man or not, he did. It had less to do with what he said, and more to do with his intention, trying to bring a smile to someone's face.

Wait a minute, am I getting philosophical here? Must have been that glass of rum ;)

Do You Smell That?

Ah, yes. The smell of fall is in the air. Either it's fall or...nevermind. It's crisp, it's fresh. There's just somethin' about it. Fall is my favorite time of year (apart from New Year's, my birthday, summer rain, Johnny Miles Marathon Weekend, the first snow fall and when Justin Timberlake releases his next album *ahem*).

For me, fall means many things, like back to school (horray!). Just kidding. Ok, I'm slightly serious. Fall is an exciting time, a switching of gears. The camis, capris, sun dresses and sexy sling-backs are packed away (at least they are when you live in Canada). And out comes the wool sweaters, corduroy jumpers, tweed mini-skirts, leather platform boots and ever-so-sexy long johns.

Despite the fact that during fall us Candians bundle up, I find it the most enticing time of year. Summer's too sluty. Everything's "out there". But fall, ah, now there's when the imagination has to get you going. You have to wonder just what's under that camel skin-cotton-cashmere blend sweater.

Personally, I think there's nothing sexier than a guy in a wool sweater. Ok, maybe not a wool sweater because I'm allergic to wool. But a thick cable-knit sweater, or turtleneck. Mmmmmm...turtleneck. Um, not sure what my point was here. Ah yes, it's that leaving something to the imagination is good. You may never know what's under there. Or, you might. You tease.

And don't even get me started on hot chocolate by a roaring fire.

Save A Cowboy, Ride a Horse

#4. Go horseback riding (Note: something my married sister always wanted to do...and thought it could go on my list. She has forgotten all too soon about what the dating world is really like and is having way too much fun thinking of items to add to my list). COMPLETED

It's official...I am a cowgirl. Well not "official" in a got-a-diploma-from-cowgirl-college kind of way, but pretty damn close. Yee-haw! [See, can speak in cowgirl-isms] and I really know how to show off a great pair of...er, boots. Yes, that's it. Boots.

While on mini-vacation in New Brunswick, had the opportunity to saddle up at the dude ranch. [Note: dude ranch is NOT a literal term, there were no dudes there.] Studs (of the equestrian variety) yes, but no dudes (except that one guy who was there with his girlfriend but he was kind of whimpy). Alas, I polished my pair of...er, boots for nothing. Yes, that's it. Boots.

I even met a celebrity at the dude ranch. Well, not an actual celebrity per say, but there were some parallels between my horse and a certain Mr. Tom Cruise. But I'm putting the cart before the horse here (brewhaha).

To start off, we completed a short form/ questionaire. Blah blah blah no libility, ride at own risk, helmets available, have you ever rode before (keep a straight face), how long since your last ride (stop frowning), what would assist with choosing the right horse for you? Hmmm...answer: a horse that likes to go s-l-o-w. I even spelled it just like that "s-l-o-w."

The horse lady didn't even look at our forms. She just chucked them in a pile on a shelf in the stable. And that's how I ended up with [Tom] Cruise. Well, that and the fact that I'm 5"6 and 3/4's and that's how they pick your horse, by height. The similarities between the two were definately list worthly so...

The Parallels Between My Horse Cruise and Tom Cruise:
- Both have brown hair (I know! It's like they're freaking twins or something!)
- Bud, the oldest and slowest horse of the group was ahead of us and I had to keep pulling on the reins to stop Cruise the horse from riding into Bud's a**. Please people, don't make me spell the parallel out for you here
- I am a redhead, Nicole Kidman is [sometimes] a redhead
- When I tried to direct Cruise the horse with the reins, he just tossed his head and then rode headlong into the bushes (no doubt to teach me who's boss). Much like Tom Cruise has to have control over everything. Katie, I mean, Kate are you reading this?
- Tom Cruise has been known to jump on yellow couches, Cruise the horse stepped on a yellow dandelion

[Note: This list is very funny when you're drinking white wine].

My time with Cruise lasted 60 minutes (longer than most Cruise encounters I'm told). And, it was kind of boring to be truthful (again, parallels). I know I said I wanted a slow horse, but the couple of times we trotted was the best part. Turns out, I'm a cowgirl who likes to go fast.

The ride left me refreshed and sore as hell. The picture of the cowgirl (above) was obviously taken pre-ride. But nothing beats having the breeze in your hair, riding horseback through the open field. Now I remember why I wanted a pony when I was younger. Ok, who are we kidding, "pony" was on my wish list last Christmas. I guess there's always this year.

You've Got Male, and Male, and Male, and Male and Male

And so it's begun. Online "dating" aka looking for a cool *** guy to accompany me to several events. The flirting and typos are amuck. Tonight I was working my "A game" - simultaneously having 5 conversations with potential male-arm-candy or "Mandy" as I've now dubbed them. It's a good thing I'm a quick typer.

Not all of it was good news. I've already started attracting the weirdos/dumb-as-a-stick-ers. For your viewing pleasure here's a sample. What you are about to read are from real online instant message conversations thanks to the proud livestock, er, members of Lavalife. There's no way I could make **** like this up. Typos and lack of punctuation are included for the full effect.

Guy #1: knock...knock...anyone home?
Me: Who's there?
Guy #1: big bad wolf
Me: Sorry, wrong number!

[Bloggers Note: It's 3 hours later and I'm still laughing my *** off over that one. I think I let a little bit of pee go].


Guy #2: hey whats up
Me: Hi there. Just checking my email. What's up with you?
Guy #2: jsut realxing after a hard dsays work
[probable English translation: just relaxing after a hard days work]
Me: Nice :)
Guy #2: so whats up with you wanna trade backstage
Me: Just reading your profile. Sure - I'll send it. I only have one pic backstage right now. Here you go.
Guy #2: pretty so do you have msn
[probable English translation: You're smokin' hot! and something or other about msn]
Me: Yes.
Guy #2: hers mine but hodl yoru brath dont want yiou to faint when yio see how hot i am
[possible English translation: here's mine but hold your breath you don't want to faint when you see how hot I am.] Although wouldn't holding ones breath assist with fainting?
Me: I'm at [provides email address...I know - mistake!]
Guy #2: can you add m
Me: I tried to view your backstage but it said I didn't have access. I guess I'll have to hold off on the fainting.
Guy #2: giv it a min
Me: ok [rolled eyes here]


Guy #3: hi how ru?
Me: Great thanks - how are you?
Guy #3: not bad thx wat r u up to?
[probable English translation: Not bad thanks what are you up to hot stuff?]
Me: Just checking my email before I head out for a run.
Guy #3: nice where to? [warning: potential stalker]
Me: I haven't decided yet. I do this to avoid stalkers.
Guy #3: here is my bs could I see yours
[I'm assuming he was referring to his "backstage" i.e. photo gallery]
Me: Starting with the b***s*** already eh. I only have one pic there right now but here you go.
Guy #3: thanks not a bad picture at all [sigh...my prince charming]
At this point my other conversations are way more interesting and I can't even pretend to be interested.
Guy #3: MSN is [provides his MSN addy] if you'd care to chat
Hmmm...I'll have to think about that one

Ofcourse, those were samples of no-brainers (literally). I did have loads of good convo and shameless flirting with real potential Mandy's. Stay tuned.

My Name Is Erika...And I Am An Addict

"Addict" n. one given up to something, usually an evil.

Yes, I'm sorry to report that I've fallen off the wagon. Not just any old horse drawn wagon though, the just-as-uncomfortable dating wagon.

On Saturdays it's my usual practise to relax and enjoy my coffee (x3), thus avoiding any/all house cleaning until absolutely necessary. This can leave me open and vunerable to temptation in the worst way. Trying to divert my attention to something frivolous, say pondering how the bone structure of Ashlee Simpson's face can change so dramically without plastic surgery (*ahem*) does not always work.

Ofcourse it does not help that several "a-date-would-be-nice" functions [celebratory work dinner and family wedding] are fastly approaching and there's zero stallions in my for-emergencies-only dating stable.

Possibility #1: Call metro male escort service and have them send a Fabio-hunk down for said functions. Downfalls include: $$$ I'd rather spend at Ikea, and possibly enduring scenario out of "The Wedding Date", not to mention endless questions from colleagues/family. Upsides include: Possible high-fives and "you go girl!" from colleagues/family. Perhaps escort service has first-time-buyer special...

Possibility #2: Post profile on online dating site. Downfalls include: attracting weirdos as seem to be blessed with natural weirdo-attracting ability, scaring potential non-weirdo with wedding date invite, incident involving garter belt, and endless questions from colleagues/family. Upsides include: A free drink or ten to assist with having a good time with weirdo and potential for snogging.

Possibility #3: Accept referrals from family/friends/colleagues/strangers on the street. Downfalls include: potential for zero referrals (due to cock blocking) or ending up with over-60 neighbour who likes to mow my lawn with his shirt off. Upsides include: ???

Hmmm...seems like a no-brainer. My [quite witty] online profile is now posted at Lavalife.ca. Let the weirdos roll in! I've experienced the online dating phenomenon before and truth be told, it can be addicting for those of us who: a) like shopping from the comfort of our own home and b) find word-smithing quite sexy. Sure, I have other more interesting and/or bizzare addictions (like things starting with "S" - speeding, Scrabble, suckers, and strawberries not to mention guys with glasses which doesn't start with "S" but I digress) I'll save those for another post.

[Note: technically this is not going against no-dating-until-the-list-is-done policy as it won't be a date per say but rather an accompaniment.]

Random Dating Advice, Tip #2

Last night was tough. Not just because Wentworth Miller didn't remove his shirt during the season premier of Prison Break [sigh] but my softball team, the Shortstops...lost.our.game. Actually "lost" is a kinder, gentler word than some that come to mind [demolished with a capital "D", a**whopped, b***s ripped off and slow pitched to us, ahem...etc].

My sometimes-under-the-radar competitive nature became quite apparent as the game progressed. At first, I tried to keep the four/five/six letter expletives under my breath. In the end, I was like a seasoned navy sailor unleshed during happy hour in Mexico [a trait passed on to me by my paternal grandmother]. The more I tried to concentrate, the more mistakes I made. And it's never a good sign when I begin to roll up the sleeves of my t-shirt (as if freeing my shoulders and/or arm pits will impact my ability to not f*** up). Yes, say hello to the other side of Erika. And it ain't pretty.

Rowdy cheering from our fans, including Undercover Mother, wasn't enough to change the end result. But gee whiz, we're ordering some snazzy team shirts!

I did an hour of Taebo when I got home, to work off the pent up agression (and punish myself for the bad plays I made). Besides, Billy Blanks doesn't care if I swear. Personally, I think he kind of likes it.

Today at work Undercover Mother outed the competitive side of my personality. Hard to believe such a sweet little thing like me could be so expressive (uh huh). Did I mention my nickname at work is Firecracker? Really, they should have seen that one coming. And hello! The redhead/bad temper thing that we redheads try to pretend is just a myth without a shred of substance...so TRUE.

Our veteran coworker Margaret, who we affectionally call Aunt Margie, ducked into my cubicle for "storytime with Aunt Margie". To summerize (you'll thank me) when you feel like you're getting down, remember the sage words of Pollyanna and "always find something to be glad about". I've been advised this can be applied to many areas of one's life (including home renovations and dating to name a few). But especially, to avoid swearing at a shitter-of-a-softball-game.

I'm a real heat-of-the-moment kind of girl, so to ensure cooler heads prevail and all that b***s*** I've decided to make a list [naturally] which I will write down and carry with me at all times. A list I like to call:

Things To Be Glad About When You Really Feel Like Saying F***:
- Ability to stop traffic with leg baring mini-skirt
- Wentworth Miller with/without shirt
- Jellybeans

Does one really need more of a list than that? H*** no. Er, I mean ofcourse not silly.

Ironically, I have been approached by someone interested in collaborating on a children's book/series. I can't even imagine right now what that would look like.

Random Compliment, #1

This evening I stopped by the local liqour store to pick up a little something to keep me company during BB7. I grabbed a pint of coconut rum (my favorite) and headed for the cash.

Lisa the Liquor Store Clerk: "Can I see your ID please?"
Me: "Um, sure [chuckle]. I haven't been asked that in a while." [Proudly hand over ID]
Lisa the Liquor Store Clerk: [looking at my ID] "Oh, wow! Well good for you!"

Thank you Lisa (and thank you Nivea mosturizing cream). 30 is so the new 19.

Happily Never After

#10. Decide to make time for reading, take on "Tabloid Love" a memoir by Bridget Harrison as more of reference material than shameless reading. COMPLETED

Proclaimed as "A real-life Bridget Jones meets Sex and the City" by Candace Bushnell (author of Sex and the City) I had some expectations going into this one. The cover states rather boldly..."Looking for Mr. Right in all the wrong places." Bloody hell, was this the book for me! [Not that I'm looking for Mr. Right/Wrong or Indifferent, you know, because of the list and all that but...]

Trying to snag a copy of it was like looking for, well, for something really really hard to find (an albino elephant with one tusk and two left feet perhaps?). The local Coles store wasn't carrying it, even Chapters in Halifax didn't have a spot reserved on their shelves for a juicy copy or two. So I had to order the book (hardcopy no less) through Indigo.

Two weeks and $32.50 Cdn plus tax and shipping later...

I eagerly began my journey into swinging New York City circa 2000. To summerize: Bridget is a lowly reporter in her native Britain and comes to work at the New York Post on some type of reporter exchange thingy. She ends up staying in the Big Apple to follow her dreams of becoming world class news hound. Let the misadventure begin! No, wait, not yet. There's more...

Bridget decides to break it off with her steady hunky beau Angus who's back in Britain because:
a) long distance relationships are hard damn it
b) realizes in a cheesy movie-music-montage type of moment that he's not "The One"
c) cheats on him with the first American guy to show her some attention at a costume party
d) his name is Angus
e) all of the above

Yes folks, it was THAT predictable. [For those of you still guessing, the answer is "e" but I threw in "d" just to mess with you]

Alright! Now "Bridgie"can let loose on the single scene! Let the misadventure begin. No wait, not yet. True, Bridget meets some real creeps, has some random shagging and goes on some completely horrible dates but I found myself finding it hard to read. Not just because it wasn't as witty as some literature I've reviewed (Sophie Kinsella for example) but mostly because it was hard to stomach Bridget making herself way too accomodating for these wankers.

"Ding dong"
"Who's there?"
"It's Bridget, the British doormat"

I mean, ugh. Have a bit of self-respect.

[Note to self: perhaps am a bit too far on the other side of the spectrum and don't allow guys to get close enough to see what color my eyes are let alone chance any potential disrespect].

Bridget then gets her very own dating column in the Post and she begins shagging her Editor/boss Jack after mooning over him for two years. Ok, now the misadventure begins and Bridget has become my new hero. But alas, things don't quite work out for Jack and our British babe.

More bad dates with New Yorkers and less random shagging ensue. All her friends become smug marrieds with babies. Her parents long for the day when Bridgie will meet a guy who sticks around.

But do we get a happy ending? I don't want to spoil it for those of you who might actually read the book. Ah what the h***, I'll tell you anyway. In the end, Bridget comes to terms with her single life and realizes [tear] that she is the single sexy girl in the red dress at her friend's wedding and what could be more exciting than that?

Groan.

Turns out my dating life [former dating life] is just as exciting/horrifying to read about. Save yourself the $32.50 Cdn plus tax and shipping. And Jack, if you're reading this...call me ;)

[Un]discovered Dating Techniques #2: The Cock Block

"Cock Block" n. a friend (usually male) that will not allow one, to have any type of relationship with someone else (usually female). Also can be a motor vehicle maneuver, usually done by insecure twenty- something males (who think that everybody wants to race them) and other ignorant people, designed to prevent someone from changing lanes in traffic. [According to the Urban Dictionary...]

My coworker, Bryan stops by my cubicle each week, almost always with the same purpose. Each time, our non-work-related conversation goes a little something like this...

Bryan: "Hi Erika. How's your love life going these days?"
Me: "Er...um, it's non-existant. Thanks for asking Bryan."
Bryan: "I don't know what's wrong with these young guys and why they're not asking you out. I just don't get it. I mean, look at you!"
Me: "Yeah, I don't get it either Bryan." [But thanks for adding to my insecurities]
Bryan: " I know a guy who's single. His name is Pete"...

Bryan then goes on to list all of the great qualities that Pete (or sometimes it's Chris) has: good-looking, smart, funny, works out, knows the words to every Loverboy song, can cook, donated part of kidney to stranger for life-saving surgery etc. The trouble is, Bryan has already told me all of this over a month ago at which time I immediately [ok, with the prompting of my coworker Mary aka Undercover Mother] wrote down my number and email address on the back of my business card. To date, Bryan has not delivered this information to Peter and/or Chris. Bryan has no follow through. His intentions are good but in actuality he's a cock blocker.

My virgin ears [I use that term loosely] had never heard this term before. But thanks again to Undercover Mother for keeping this singleton in the know.

And not all the cock blocking is reserved just for Bryan. There's cock blocking going on all over the bloody place. My friend Nan had this guy, Frank, she was going to introduce me to but was hesitant because she thought I "could do better." Couldn't I be the judge of that? I advised Nan this week I was still waiting to be introduced to Frank. She told me he had met someone and they've been serious for a couple of months. Hello! Cock blocker!

My cublice neighbour Marco was chatting up a hunky police officer outside our office building one morning. When Marco returned to his desk, I asked him about the 411 on Constable Cutie. He promised to look for a wedding ring when he went down to the station for questioning later that day. Turns out Marco's soon-to-be-ex-wife was trying to have him socked with some trumped-up bocus charge. When I asked Marco about Constable Cutie the next day, Marco admitted he hadn't even looked for a ring when he went down to the station to make a statement. What the hell kind of a cock blocker is he? I mean, I know he was facing possible criminal charges but come on...help a single coworker out!

Even my grandmother is in on the cock blocking action. There was a potential guy for me at her church. But does she set up an arranged married with his family? No. And now he's engaged to someone else. Someone whose grandmother is not a cock blocker.

When I managed to meet a half-decent guy [pre-list days ofcourse] my male coworkers thought it was time to cockity-cock-cock-block. My last boyfriend, Gordon, was tortured endlessly. They kindly referred to him as Gargoyle [Gargo for short]. One coworker, Rowan, even suggested I break up with Gargo because he wasn't cool as he was. And why was that exactly? Because he didn't own a convertable. [Ofcourse! How silly of me.]

I think I have entered a parallel cock blocking universe. Population = 1.

**Disclaimer: The term Cock Blocker, as referenced above is a term of affection and is not in any way meant to offend. I still adore my coworkers, my friend Nan and my grandmother .**

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Tomorrow, it's all coming off. Yes, I'm feeling brazen and in the words of Freddie Mercury, "I want to break free"... from my hair that is. And to be honest [pause for effect] I'm getting a bit anxious. It was quite the topic of convo at work as my coworkers helped me review pages (and pages) of hairstyle mags for possibilities. But I've picked "the one". It's quite short. And I'm going to trying wearing it straight for bit.

Going short for a girl can be tricky; it's a delicate balance between pixie and butchy. And one person holds all the power...the stylist. I've chosen a new gal, Wendy (on the recommendation of Undercover Mother and her daughter Bridget - they both have bloody fantastic cuts). Undercover Mother is feeling a bit anxious herself; concerned that I'll blame her if my cut doesn't turn out as pictured (I won't...at least not out loud anyway). I tried to reassure her, wigs are so "in" right now!

But I can't seem to shake the fear that I'll end up looking like a cross between Clay Aiken and Little Orphan Annie. Definately not sexy (sorry Annie).

I'm still suffering side effects from the last time I cut it all off. My curls were half-way down my back and during summer break I lopped them off within an inch of my head. You can't imagine the hoopla - hundreds of fans wrote into the show flaming mad that I'd cut my beautiful hair. No wait, that happened to Felicity's Keri Russell. But it was quite similar. Except fans didn't write (it was my family, and it wasn't letters exactly, but lots and lots of words were involved). And I guess I wasn't on a show however I do like it when I'm the center of attention but I digress.

I remember feeling lighter (literally, my hair weighs a bit) but at the same time, losing some of my identity. Strangers no longer came up to me at random and asked to touch my hair. Instead they just asked to touch my belly (I was pregnant). I was no longer "the girl with the beautiful hair" but just a girl [tear]. I missed the hollow attention I got because of my hair which now seems so completely stupid. I know how to get attention in other more positive ways, like low cut shirts. Er, um, I mean my brain ;)

Point blank, no matter how my hair turns out tomorrow, I'm looking forward to a change. As if by fate, Shoppers Drug Mart had a fabulous sale on hair straigtheners today. I just happened to swing by the "hair accessory" isle on my way to the tic tacs. How's that for a sign?

Unfortunately they also had a sale on hair pieces.

Road Trip...Thelma and Louise Style

#13. Go on out-of-town vacation. COMPLETED
#14. Buy new "little black dress" (a necessity for black tie affair at end of the month at my friend Charlene's house, which is also out of town - a way to cross two things off my list!). COMPLETED

If Thelma and Louise didn't do a harakiri off the cliff at the end of the movie, surely they would have wanted to tag along on this wild girls-only road trip [with the exception of my uncle we dropped off at the airport. Besides, he's just like one of the girls - he works in retail].

The dusty trail (literally, there was lots of road construction) took Teri, Suzie, KJ and I to the end of the Earth, er, Canada. Charlene, our hostess for this year's annual girls-get-together-weekend lives in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Our friend, Nan was laid up with kidney stones and unable to attend.

The theme for this year's event...black and white, hence the need for a little black dress. Not that I don't own one already but the last time I took that baby around the block for a spin was on an unfortunate New Year's Eve spent at a dance featuring a Rolling Stones cover band with my [ex] boyfriend Matt and my parents when I weighed about 25 pounds more. 15 of those pounds were carried soley in my a** area. Not a memory I'd like to relive. Besides, an excuse to shop? I never met one I didn't like.

Until now. For two weeks solid I scoured the racks of the local mall. Heck I even drove to New Brunswick to find something fab. Nothing. Special. I hadn't been this desperate since my first stint at university and was jonesing for a drink of alcohol so badly I actually went door-to-door begging from my floor-mates armed with $20 Cdn. Again, not a memory to relive. I was completely overcome with panic and contemplating taking my previously enjoyed black dress to a tailor to be altered. And then, an idea. I called Charlene to see if a red and black dress would do. I had a fabulous red and black halter dress which was purchased with my next big date in mind but due to listual obligations has been sentenced to hang in my closet with only a cold plastic hanger for comfort. At first, Charlene said I would f*** up (ok, I'm paraphrasing) the color scheme of the pictures. Then, I think she felt guilty and told me it would be "ok." But there was something in her voice that told me I'd better find a black dress ASAP. Plus, I knew Teri was breaking the rules by wearing pink and black. So I didn't want to push our hostess over the edge. With only 30 minutes left of possible shopping time, I "settled" for a saucey little number from Smart Set (complete with silver set white and black pearl necklace and matching white pearl earings).

Now that I had my main wardrobe staple nestled in my suitcase, it was time to do some extra hygiene prep [Note: if you're a guy and reading this you might want to just skip down to the next paragraph, especially if you wish to keep the illusion that we women are born this naturally groomed/ hydrated/ hairless]. Due to the clingy-ness of my new dress, I opted for a special anti-cellulite seaweed mud mask to touch up the back of my upper legs which by now were looking better thanks to my Monday night softball regimen. But what's a mud mask between friends? It was quite soothing, and I didn't experience any of the after-effects as detailed in fine print on the packaging (tingling and/or warming/burning sensation with some skin swelling, which should diminish after an hour).

Add in my usual ritual of plucking eyebrows (etc...ouch), soaking feet, filing and painting nails, extra-conditioning hair, shaving legs, under arms (etc...yup) and somehow I used up two hours of prep time. With only a few minutes left til embarking I tossed on my "travel outfit" - a cute pair of low rise Bluenote jeans, yellow tank top, green flip flops and my trade-mark sunglasses. With a swish of mascara (ok, ok and a smige of coral blush) we left. In the pouring rain. Rain is like the kryptonite of curly haired girls.

Sometime during the course of our adventure, we each decided to purchase a lotto ticket in each town we stopped (thus somehow increasing our chances at winning top prize). Now I don't know if you've ever been on a road trip with four women in their very (very) early 30's who've had a combined total of 7 children but the stops were...frequent. And this was beginning to add up to a fair chunk of change for the lotto corporation.

At around hour #3 I noticed the sun was out and it was getting hot (no thanks to my out-of-commission auto air conditioning). But it wasn't just the heat of the sun. It was the searing heat coming from my upper legs and/or a**. I reached my hand around to make sure my a** didn't somehow spontaneously combust. And then, I realized...it was the anti-cellulite seaweed mud mask. Crap. Maybe I didn't rinse throughly enough and now it was spreading a rash-like..well, rash all over my body? We pulled into the nearest one-horse town.

As chance would have it, the Tim's was a drive-thru only. Double crap. The only visable option was a farmer's co-op or the local run-down garage. Since we were already gambling women, I went to the garage. Suzie and KJ decided to accompany me while Teri waited in the car. There was a cute young guy sitting at the cash smacking some gum. I didn't even have to say anything, the sheer look of panic in my face gave it away. "Looking for the bathroom?" he asked. "Yes" I tried to crank up the corners of my mouth into a smile despite the mexican hot-dance going on in my jeans. "Second door on the right" he said. And I was off. The mirror in the bathroom was about 5"x7" and 6 feet off the floor so doing a 360 degree check was out. I craned my neck around to assess (no pun intended) the situation. Hmmm...I was rash free. But my skin was a tad puffy. Slightly relieved, I opened the door to find Suzie smiling which was slightly odd since she didn't even know my good news yet. "Where's KJ? I asked. "She couldn't wait, so she decided to use the ladies washroom." Say what? My eyes scanned the door I just exited, and sure enough, there in bold block letters read "MEN". Ok...so I was slightly preoccupied. And note to cute guy working the cash, it's the third door on the right.

Charlene didn't disappoint in her hostess capabilities. Everything was amazing. Her husband, Tad is a fisherman. So it's quite fitting (or kinky) that in their back yard dangling from a tree is a long rope with an orange buoy on the end. After some "refreshments" we took turns swinging on the buoy in our fancy dress for some candid photos (not quite so easy when wearing barely-there knickers). After some more "refreshments" we were put to work on a crossword puzzle. Weeks earlier Charlene had sent out questions for us to answer. Questions included...what would the others be shocked to learn about you (hmmm...) and who was your secret high school crush (I listed two, neither of which was a secret..like my grade 12 English lit teacher Mr. Wellington). Answers to these and other juicy questions formed the crossword. That's what I'm very involved in (see pic above) and yes, those are my original unaltered pair.

We topped the night off with a few more refreshments and a rowdy game of "I Never". Let's just say, apparently there's quite a host of things I could add to my list (like getting it on in the parking lot during a big time music awards show); none of these items however could pass my PG rating. That got us a bit fired up so we got in our pj's and popped in Carmen Electra's Aerobic Striptease (Hip Hop) video to burn off some calories. Charlene was amazed that I could perform the routine quite well. I don't mean to brag, but I do own the video.

All-in-all it was a super trip to Yarmouth filled with stories and laughter and a bevy of refreshments. Not to mention a bit of shopping at the local adult entertainment store Sugar and Spice. Thelma and Louise would be proud. Unlike the feminist duo, our brush with the law was short lived. On our way out of town, I was [admittedly] speeding, as in, doing 120 kmh in a 100 kmh zone. It was too late to brake by the time I spied the cruiser approching in the opposite lane. And what does Officer Handsome do? He sticks his hand out the driver side window, with a thumbs down motion [presumably telling me to slow down]. What? No speeding ticket? Right on copper. I love Yarmouth!

[Note to readers: none of the participants in this weekend were lotto winners despite our sure-fire winning method].