Ghosts of Boyfriends Past - The Karate Kid

I figured it might be best to start at the beginning. Not the "beginning" beginning (because that goes way back to when I was 14 and begins with "A long tiome ago, in a galaxy far far away"), but the beginning of my first love.

Ah, first love. I was 17. He was 18. And thus began my life long interest in older men. He was a black belt in karate. And thus began my life long appreciation of the martial arts, and the guys that do them.

The first day we met, I ran into him with my friends, whom he knew. We were at the mall. I was shopping for bell bottoms which had recently made a come back (they did!). He was so cute and funny (my Achilles heel combo when it comes to men). The group of us decided to grab some food at Subway, which was new in town. I'd never been there before and felt awkward about my lack of sandwich condiment knowledge.

Two days later, I was checking the mail, and noticed a Subway comments card inside. It was from HIM. He had completed the feedback section for a future date - for the night of our first date. Cocky bastard. Which was irresistible. And it was one of the most original ways I have ever been asked out on a date.

He taught me self-defence, and how to protect myself from aggressive male advances, which I used (though mostly on him). He taught me that love is not always enough. And to think twice about dating a guy who thought he was Spiderman.

What A Difference A Letter Makes

If you work in an office chances are your fingers fly across the keyboard. You're so good (and by "you're" I mean, me) that you don't even stop and think about what you're doing.

Today, I decided to check out MSN.com for all the lastest news. After all, a girl in the know is...um, better than two in the bush. Or something like that.

Unfortunately, instead of typing MSN.com, I typed MEN.com. Now folks, let me tell you - that's a whole OTHER website. And you're going to have a hard time explaining that to Human Resources (and by "you're" I mean, me).

In unrelated news...this is my 250th post!

Today's Post Is Brought to You By The Letter "V" As In...(Don't Make Me Say It!)

Are you trying to get in shape for a public event? Like, um, say a wedding, or a class reunion, or a Britney Spears concert?

Me too! And to help me in my feat, I picked up all three of the new Jillian Michaels workout DVDs. If this chick can whip the Biggest Loser contestants into shape, imagine what's in store for little old young me? Fab-u-lous-ness.

I did my first workout last night and learned a very valuable lesson. FYI...

1 piece of New York cheesecake + 1 Jillian Michaels Banish Fat Boost Metabolism DVD = vomit

I never was one for math problems. But Jillian, you just might want to add this disclaimer to your DVD intro.

Climb Every Mountain

In between getting ready for work this morning, scarfing down breakfast coffee, making the bed, and emptying the dishwasher...

I managed to drag an over-flowing laundry basket down the hallway to the top of the stairs, hoping that Paul would take the hint, and carry it down to the laundry room (aka the room where things go, but never return).

Paul: "Honey, I think the laundry monster came by and pooped in our hallway."

Ugh.

Dating Montage

I figured since my single girl days are numbered (96 to be exact), I should pay homage to the many men (many many many men) who made me the woman I am today. And no, I don't mean bitter. But definitely wiser, as in, "WTF was I thinking?"

Um, that was a rhetorical question.

Each week, I'll feature...let's see...96 days divided by 7 equals 13.71 weeks till I get married. Which means I'd have to write about...carry the ten...2.55 guys per week. That 0.55 post should be interesting.

To protect the "innocent" and "wankers" alike, I'll use nouns instead of names. This will also cut down on the confusion as I describe "that guy" and "that guy" because I don't actually remember all of their names. Isn't that horrible?

Again, a rhetorical question.

Math Problem

At lunch, I read the soup can labels, opting to go with the "Garden Tomato" which had only 120 calories (versus the "Creamy Tomato" with 170 calories) all the while thinking to myself that now I could "afford" to get the Sour Cream n' Onion bag of chips that had my name on it. Oh. Yes. I. Did.

Talk To The Booty, 'Cause the Face Ain't Listening

I can always tell when I've gained a bit of weight, usually because my bikini briefs could be mistaken for a thong.

Working 9 to 5

I was really hoping to win the lottery last night so that I could call in "rich" to work today.

Off the Mark

My Saturday morning martial arts class was smaller than usual, which I like for two reasons: Number 1 - there are less bodies sweating in the dojang (although smelly french guy more than made up for it), and Number 2 - I get the chance to shine with my mad martial arts skills.

Now, I just don't show off for just any old reason. Ok, maybe I do...a bit. But Paul is also in the class. So, I want him to know two things: Number 1 - I am not always a total klutz, and Number 2 - my hands are leathal weapons.

Sure, it doesn't hurt that my instructor is DDG either.

Kicking was the morning's agenda. I got into the "zone" and hauled off and attacked the inanimate kicking post (kinda like a punching bag but stationed on the floor, on a pole). After a half hour, our instructor announced that by far, my kicks were the best out of the whole class. I blushed slightly, and pumped my fist, mouthing "yes" to Paul.

Next we moved from kicking the inanimate object, to kicking our instructor who was holding up a hogu (chest protector) both to protect himself and to provide the class with a kicking target. As the line got shorter and my turn drew near, I gave myself a pep talk, "Ok, you can do this. Just like before." But there's a difference between kicking an inanimate object and kicking your DDG instructor for two reasons: Number 1 - he smells way better than rubber, and Number 2 - he's DDG and intimidating. Ok, that might be three reasons...

I took my stance, took a breath, tried not to look in his eyes, and let my leg fly. Unfortunately, my nervousness affected my aim, and I kicked my instructor in the hip. The second time around I vowed to be better, my best-class-kicker reputation was on the line! Breathe, aim, kick in the ribs. Breathe, aim, kick in the ribs. My second kick flew and struck my instructor...in the leg.

Oops. I felt so bad. Not just for hitting him. But for letting myself get flustered enough to impact my mad martial arts skills.

But I did learn the following lessons: Number 1 - it's impossible to show Paul I'm not a total klutz and Number 2 - I'd better hope I don't get attacked on the street by hot looking thugs.

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me...

Lately, it's like I've been living in a cave. Literally.

Ever since Paul found out his ex has shacked up across the street, he's constantly closing our curtains. Mmmmm...k.

I tried to ask (nonchalantly, natch) what was up with the constant state of darkness in our house? His answer, "I feel like someone is watching us." I probed further to see if "someone" meant HER. Paul said he'd "forgotten" all about her living a bagel's throw away, and made ME feel like the paranoid one for remembering she lived there. Mmmmm...k.

Things are getting weird up in here.

Ho-No

I finished my morning pre-work primping routine and headed down the stairs to mix my trusty travel mug full of an especially large dose of coffee. Paul was already out the door, taking the trash to the curb for pick-up. On my way to the kitchen, I noticed Paul chatting it up with a chick at the end of our drive-way. I didn't think much about it, after all, Paul chats with everyone - in the elevator, in line at the grocery store, in the dentist chair, in the bathroom. Ok, maybe not that last one.

While trying to decide whether to wear black stilettos or plum flats I noticed Paul was still chatting with this chick. Hmmm. Someone was being a little too-friendly around the garbage.

I found my nose pressed to the glass by the front door trying to get a better look. Who did this chick think she was? Her and her 6-weeks-too-long-between-trims pixie cut. I was half-way tempted to walk out and pee a circle around Paul. But cooler heads prevailed. And by cooler heads, I mean Paul walked back up the driveway into the house.

Turns out the welcome wagon is our new neighbour. She's also Paul's ex-girlfriend. The one he dated right before moi. It's one thing to run into your man's ex on the sidewalk. It's another to have them shacking up across the street within binocular range. Not that I've looked or anything. Much.

There goes the neighbourhood.

Mail Order Bridal

Dear Perfect Wedding Dress,

Where for art thou? Ah yes, the internet. I can see you online. I can order you. But I can not try you on. Or see a sample in an uptight bridal boutique. Temptress.

Sure, you're perfect. So what could be wrong with ordering you sight unseen? Except it will take 4 months for you to get to me here in Canada which is pretty much forever in bridal planning months. Then, if you don't fit, I'll be forced to buy off the rack. Ick. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just a *tad* extra pressure. You know, on top of the whole planning-a-wedding-pressure. And I don't want to end up in something fru fru and poofy and beaded.

Plus, your price tag makes me go weak at the knees. Or maybe that's all the white wine.

I dream of you dear dress. All ivory and silky or whatever you're made of. I can picture myself floating down the isle glowing in your perfectness before throwing up over the side of the boat.

I simply must have you. That, and a good seamstress. Perhaps some gravol wouldn't hurt either.

Raised Eyebrow

So I was feeling a little weighty and bloated and cranky this week. And what better way to improve a warped self-imagine and 'tude than a little salon therapy? One hair cut, lash and brow tint and brow wax later I was starting to feel like myself again. Until...

My esthetician turned to me and said, "I've never done this before in my whole career" followed by a l-o-n-g pause. I didn't know what was going to happen next. For some reason I thought she was going to put the moves on me or something. Instead she confessed that one third of my left eyebrow was inadvertently waxed off.

Part of me was relieved. Part of me was horrified. All of me couldn't stop laughing. I mean what could I do? It's not like she MEANT to make me look like a Romulan.

I guess technically I'm 10 eyebrow hairs lighter now...so yay me.

Un-Pap-ular

[Interior...Doctor's Office]
Doctor: So what's brings you in today Redhead?
Me: I'm here for my [whispers] check-up.
That's why I look so cagey.
Doctor: When did you have your last...check-up?
Me: It would have been a year ago in November. Not last last November but this last November that just past. Plus now it's February so 12 plus 3 carry the 1...a year and three months.
I really need to learn to count in my head.
Doctor: Have you ever had an abnormal...check-up?
Maybe once.
Me: Not that I recall.
Doctor: Then you can get one every two years.
What kind of cracker jack doctor are you?
Me: But last year you told me to make sure I was tested again in a year because my tests were so infrequent.
Don't you remember every word I say?
Doctor: Now I'm telling you, you can get it done every two years.
Me: Not that I'm trying to argue to have a...check-up, god knows it isn't a barrel of monkeys. Like getting strip-searched at the airport by a Danny Devito look-a-like. But I definitely want to have it done today while I'm here. I just drove an hour and a half for this.
Plus, I shaved.
Doctor: Why don't you have a doctor in the city?
Because God is trying to punish me.
Me: It's impossible to find a doctor's that's taking new patients. Besides, I wanted to keep you while I was undergoing all of those tests with the specialist.
Doctor: Yeah, I've got friends in the city who can't find a doc earlier.
Then why did you ask dumb-ass?
Doctor: [Hands me a paper gown, closes the hospitalish curtain, and mumbles small talk]
Should I take off the knee-high nylons or leave them on? I'm not sure of pap-protocol. I decide to leave them on. Even though they smell odd, like sweaty bologna...thanks to my unbreathable faux-snakeskin boots.
Me: Ready. Set. Glove.
Doctor: [Still trying to make small talk] Now relax.
Yeah huh. Give me a pair of those gloves and I'll tell you to relax.

This reminds me of my Grade 12 prom - my breasts weren't squeezed at all. I ask about an itchy mole that has cropped up on my arm, which has me paranoid with visions of skin cancer. But the doctor says it's nothing to worry about (unless it starts oozing puss...ew!).

I think my doctor actually finds this hard . And he's a young doctor. Not that it's easier when you're younger (less experience and all that - again, just like Grade 12 prom). But it's weird. He's a DOCTOR. And a man. It's not like I'm repulsive when I'm half dressed (even if all I'm wearing is an unflattering paper gown).

Oh god. Maybe that's it. Or maybe he thinks it's weird that I shave. Or that I left my bologna-smelling knee-highs on. Or maybe I'm just being silly.

Still, I hope he's not that timid in the delivery room. Poor baby.

Oops I Did It Again...

Have you ever gone to the bathroom, only to realize mid-pee that you don't hear the tinkle tinkle of urine...

You do the between-the-legs-WTF-look (because you "hover" you don't sit EVER) and see the lid is down. Yup, you've just peed on the toilet lid, and the floor. And a bit on your coat.

Did I mention you're in the staff bathroom of your dental office?

Vitamin C

Paul was sick with the flu for the better part of last week, plus the weekend but managed to buck up enough for V-Day. There's nothing like the opportunity for lovin' to make a man rise from his death bed sick bed.

I'm not entirely/partly/remotely sure why men turn into moaning groaning babies when they get sick. Paul was nursing a "bad" case of snuffles co-mingled with a dash of coughing. And a fever - Ooooo. But by the sounds of it [literally], he had leperacy or malaria.

Not that I think Paul was faking it or anything. He really was sick. He even finger blew his nose in the shower. But I question the degree of sickness, of Paul, or any man. When a hang-nail can morph into flesh-eating disease, you need to distance yourself and stop encouraging any man-baby behaviour. I mean come on, child birth anyone?

I have the sinking senstation the flu is making a come back, and I'm numero uno on the hit list. So, I've been taking some preemptive action, mainly by boning up on my vitamin C's - coffee and chocolate. No moaning, no groaning. Just proactive kick-assness instead of reactive sorry-assness.

Now what's so hard about that?

Eggsactly

During my vacation this week, I've been left to my own devices which includes cooking my own "meals" [note: I've been eating a lot of toast]. I am resigned to the fact that if I lived alone I would probably never cook and survive on the substance provided in take-aways.

With Paul doing all of the cooking, I've become a bit rusty in the kitchen. Considering my pre-Paul cooking skills (which consisted of stuffed mushroom caps and chocolate chip cookies), one could argue I have always been rusty in the kitchen. Apparently, sometimes there is no where to go but down. This morning I somehow managed to burn boiled eggs for breakfast. Burn. Boiled. Eggs.

Good thing I look cute in an apron.

Desperate (to-be-a) Housewife

This week I'm enjoying a much needed three days off mini-vacation (the first in almost a year). And I've realized a few things:

1. I could seriously get used to being a stay-at-home housewife. For a month or so anyway. Before I got bored. But still, it would be one great month. Yesterday, I even ate chocolates...while watching soaps!

2. I need to get out of this life-sucking job and into something new. A job where people can be creative. And dress in clothes I drool over with envy. Where you don't get f-bombed by clients every ten minutes.

3. I should really start planning my wedding. It's in 6 months and 3 days (not that I'm counting). I don't even know where to start. Groom: check. Venue: check. Justice of the Peace: check. Ok, now what? I read all the planning books. And it's not like this is my first wedding, or Paul's for that matter. But this is THE wedding. Exclamation point. Full stop.

I think I need a vacation to recover from my vacation.

On My Chinny Chin Chin

Lately I've noticed hair sprouting up in the most unexpected of places. Rogue hairs. Very stealth like. On my chin, upper lip, from moles, on a nipple (ok, ok, two nipples).

It used to be nothing a tweezer couldn't fix. But now my tweezing has reached olympic proportions. I am resigned to the fact this has everything to do with age. Yeah, yeah age is just a number - a number of chin hairs.

Luckily I'm a redhead so my unwary hairy situation is somewhat invisable to the naked eye. And by naked eye I mean Paul's eye. But I can see the little suckers. They're there, taunting me.

It brings me back to my first date with Paul and I spent hours doing some pre-date self-maintenance. I even plucked my knuckle hair. Knuckle hair! I mean who DOES that?

Guys are much more lax about the whole hair thing. Probably because men are supposed to be hairy. Men = hairy = fertile. Women = hairy = quasimodo.

If this is 32, what will 40 bring?

Duty Calls

If you haven't had the pleasure of partaking in a colonoscopy, I'll give you the run down. No pun intended.

First, you drink a big jug the size of antifreeze full of clear liquid which boasts as much flavour as stale pineapple with a hint of cardboard. Then you spend the next 9 hours *ahem* "reading in the library".

Next, you go to the hospital where they shove a ******* up your *** and then they **** and you can't even ****, let alone **** for the next day.

I tried to forget that my ass resembled the Japanese flag and looked on the bright side - bonus weight loss! Two piddly pounds worth. Apparently my crap, much like my alcohol tolerance, is a light-weight.

And somewhere in Hollywood, someone is probably paying for this.