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].

If The Phone Don't Ring, You'll Know It's Me

Despite my better judgement, I agreed to let my coworker Mary (aka Undercover Mother) set me up with one of her daughter's hunky, er...geeky clients (stick with me, it's get less complicated and sounds a lot less shady).

Mary's daughter Bridget is a massage therapist/ pastry chef/ triathelelon competitor and has a massage client (herein referred to as Evan the Electrician), she thought I should meet. Normally it's an ethical no-no to divulge one's clientele but just like my list...exceptions to the rule. [Who knew ethics were so bendable? I have so much to learn!]

When I arrived at work in the morning there was a rather large sign on my computer screen, directing me to go to Mary's cubicle immediately upon arrival. It was pink and printed mostly in capitals, so I knew she meant business. I didn't even have time to set down my coffee travel mug before Mary swooped in and promptly had me write down my digits (we're talking cell, work AND home phone numbers) and one of my three email addresses. Normally it takes a guy at least three dates, a background check and a written test to get this much contact information. Yes, she's that relentless (glad she's an ally :) Bridget was going to call Evan that very day and pass on my info. There's some enviro/politically correct/potentially foriegn film that he was looking to see and Bridget was going to ever-so-casually suggest I was up for a little cinematic adventure.

Since I'm on a dating drought that could lead to more than whispering sub-titles in one another's ears.

That was approximately 7 days and 10 and a half hours ago (not that I'm counting or anything!)...and no call from Evan the Electrician. Yes, you read me right - no contact, or as they say in the other official Canadian language, La secousse ne m'a pas appelé. [French sounds so sexy even when you're saying something un-nice].

So I came up with a list (naturally) and I've properly dubbed it...

Things To Do While You're Waiting [but not really wanting to seem like you're waiting and it's taking what seems like bloody forever] For the Phone To Ring:

- Sample Vex's new hard blueberry raspberry "lemonade"
- Try another sample (ok...two), just to make sure your first impression was accurate
- "Mow the lawn"
- Write your next blog post
- Use spell-check incessantly to review blog post for lemonade inspired typos/confessions
- Actually mow the lawn
- Have phone convo with ex-husband who mistakenly calls you "Dear" then tries to recover by making it seem like he meant to say your name which sounds nothing like Dear (oh Dr. Freud how you mock me!)
- Bake family-secret-recipe chocolate chip cookies
- Eat family-secret-recipe chocolate chip cookies
- Attempt new Billy Blanks workout video still in cellophane wrapper to burn off calories accumulated from binging on chocolate chip cookies [note to readers: probably best not to attempt after "samples"]
- Ponder why Big Brother All-Stars is somehow less entertaining than BB6...I mean, they're supposed to be ALL-STARS
- Read possible side-effects on birth control package
- Question continuing to take birth control as you are probably never going to have sex again (or at least in the immediate future)
- Pick up phone to make sure it is still in service [it is]
- Call loyal friend Charlene to make sure phone really is in service [yup, it is]
- Carry on with life

Take Me Out [of] The Ball Game

#17. Join a "non-competitive" sports team (but secretly play competitively). COMPLETED

I did it. Or rather, I'm doing it [no, not that - the list remember?]. You are reading the blog of the newest addition to the women's slow-pitch "twilight" league aka "softball for moms", of which there are three teams. My team, is the Short Stops. We certainly stopped short of using any form of creativity to carefully choose a winning team name. One that would instill fear in the women we faced. Why couldn't we have been the PMS'ers? Or Charlie's Hormonal Angels. Anything! But alas, I can't be expected to do all the thinking.

Our coach Larry is in his 80's, though you'd never know it. You know how Bob Barker is like 100? Well this guy is the Bob Barker of women's softball. Larry and his son, Gary (a young stud in his late 50's) spent two weeks teaching us gals the basics. How to throw (shoulder squared off facing the target), how to hit with the bat (don't forget to step forward with your leading foot!). It was a beautiful sight; a sea of white balls being womanhandled - a real "Bad News Bears" meets the "Mighty Ducks" kind of moment. Oddly enough you can get skilled with some basic instruction. But how the h*** did I not make the softball team in high school? Yes Mr. Stewart...I'm talking to you! Who knew I was such a gifted softballer. Ok, I had a feeling.

Picking up the lingo is taking a bit more time. I went around for days proudly announcing my position was "back catcher" ie. the person who catches the ball behind the person at bat.

[note to non-softballers...it's just called "catcher"].
[note to self...proudly announcing you're a back catcher results in sly smiles from guys].

On our last night of practise before starting our weekly scrimmages, we were taking turns catching fly-balls in the outfield. I was running to get into proper catching position but couldn't run fast enough to get under the ball. So what's a girl to do? I made a ballet-like leap through the air and yes...I caught the ball! Enjoyed cheers from teammates before realizing I'd torn a muscle and could barely walk. I attempted to continue on but got struck out twice because I couldn't run fast enough to first base. My son, Aidan, was my mini-crutch and had to lift my leg in and out of the car. Fade to rubbing A535 and downing anti-inflamatories.

I healed nicely in time for our first official game, against the Blue Jays (*not the real ones*). We lost 7-2. Slightly embarasing? Absolutely. But am I having fun? You betcha. Now it's time to kick some a**.

Undiscovered Dating Techniques #1: The Wedge

"Wedge" n. piece of material sloping to an edge. - v.t. fasten or split with a wedge; stick by compression or crowding. [According to Webster's...]

I picked up this little gem from my coworker Mary (aka Undercover Mother). Now I consider myself a singleton in the know, but I'd never heard it referenced quite this way before. It's another tool for the dating belt/box/shed. One should proceed with extreme caution when putting this method into action. Again, I stress, extreme caution.

Ever wondered occassionally (ok daily!) why a coworker, friend, or local minister...is going out with her? (Or why is she going out with him, or why is he going out with him, she going out with her, they going out with them, etc etc). You know who I mean, the two peas in a pod are blooming inseperable. He's gaga over her, dispite her lisp and penchant for corduroy jumpers. But you're way prettier. And funnier. But more importantly...you're smarter. Being cursed with smarts, means formulating a plan when you need it most, usually to get what you want.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, will have you getting what you want (the prize, er... I mean guy) for a price (self-respect and possibly your reputation). To paraphrase Mary's tidbit of info... you become the "third wheel". Always being around. They go golfing..you're there (asking for help with your swing ;) They go to the movies...you're there (buy popcorn then you have an "excuse" to sit between them...I mean you don't want to be rude and not share!). They go to the therapist...ok you can sit that one out.

Point is, all the while you're being your pretty, funny, smart self. And then, wham bam thank you Mary, he realizes he doesn't want her. You're the answer to his one-handed prayers.

Possible side effects of this technique include:
- bar room brawls
- plastic surgery (but only if her fist makes direct contact with your skin)
- guilt
- karma...one day becoming the "wedgie" instead of the "wedger"...being a wedger is one thing, I don't think anyone wants to be a wedgie

Now you can imagine my reaction when Mary finished telling me about this technique. Yes, part of it sounded a bit off but I actually considered giving it a go (prior to writing my list). And I knew precisely the couple to wedge.

The guy, we'll call him Dr. Ashley, had been my professor in university (please note: there's only a 3 year age difference). We'd met up for drinks every now and again. The last time I'd seen him was at her office Christmas party. (Side bar: I'd been invited by a computer techie I was seeing at the time. No chemistry. Moving on). I had a "contact" who worked the front desk at the gym Dr. Ashley works out at. My plan was to see if he went around the same time every day and then I could oh-so-casually bump into him. Glitch #1: Dr. Ashley hadn't been there in months. Plan B was to email him and say I'd heard he'd taken the plunge and proposed to her (although the good doctor swore up and down during our hard lenonade rendezvous he would never marry her). Glitch #2: They were bloody well engaged. Glitch #3: I was semi-happy for Dr. Ashley. So she wasn't perfect. She wasn't me. I kind of actually liked her (way deep down). Besides, was this any way to treat a fellow redhead? Even if her hair desperately needed a hot oil treatment.

So there you have it. I have a conscience. It's dusted off.

Random Dating Advice, Tip#1

If you've ever been single/ engaged/ wish you were engaged/ married/ wish you weren't married/ pregnant/ not pregnant/ and/or alive on this planet then chances are you've been on the receiving end of...random unsolicited advice.

Such advice can come at you from anyone (random stranger in line at local Tim Horton's), at anytime (while pondering why they even make single-ply toilet paper during much needed pee break in ladies room at mall during shopping extravaganza) and about anything (why to avoid hormone replacement therapy).

But occasionally, and ironically, you'll get some bloody good advice that is actually useful. At a time when you are ready to put it to good use. Yesterday was my lucky day.

Ok, so there was this guy (it's hard to believe as you're reading this, but not all of my stories start out this way). This guy...we'll call him Peter, the Parts and Service guy. Peter was quite charming and sweet, in a quasi-geeky way (the heck with bad boys...I'm a sucker for a geek). He'd been quite friendly with me over the past couple months while my car (only) was being serviced. I literally was into the dealership every week; people were beginning to think I worked there! The part didn't fit but they ordered a new one..could I come back next week or my bill wasn't ready, could I come back next week. Hmmm...sounded like someone was working up the guts to ask me out. Did I mind? Well, I didn't like the hundreds of dollars it was costing me to fix my car but if it resulted in my car getting fixed (a necessity), and a date invite (a bonus), then the answer is no.

Possible snag...unknown maritial status. My guy rader screamed "single" but it's iffy at best. Time for some MSI (maritial status investigation) care of my coworker, Mary. She is one of my biggest dating allies at work. Not just because she is like-minded singleton and is how I see myself in 20 years but because of her gusto in getting info on men. I call her "Undercover Mother".

Within minutes Mary was able to get the goods. Not those goods...the info on Peter. Turns out Peter sounds suspiciously like the live-in boyfriend of another coworker's friend. But she wasn't 100 percent undeniably sure, more like 85%. Hmmm....15% in my favour. I'm not a gambling gal (especially after this saga) but took those odds. Self-respect is so overrated.

Enter coworker Sally, Mary's cube farm neighbour. She just happened to be semi-eavesdropping (a popular sport enjoyed by everyone in the office) at that very moment on Peter-update convo with Mary. Sally went to high school with Peter, who's nickname was "rhymes with peep". Er, ok. He was kind enough to impregnate one of his high school classmates. He also has a baby with his live-in girlfriend but makes time to have affairs with other women. And something about bad eyesight? Quite possibly I stopped listening after the "rhymes with peep" word was uttered. Definately not exception-to-the-list material.

Only one question remained: Where the heck did I go so awry in my assessment of the situation? I'm tired of investing shameless flirting time with off limit guys. Sally offered me this tidbit of advice: the outgoing guys that flirt shamelessly are usually the ones who are in a relationship; they have nothing to lose by shamelessly flirting, they will end the conversation and go home to their significant other. Single guys on the other hand, want to impress you, so they tend to be a bit more reserved thus carefully crafting a way to impress you.

Complete and utter...sense.

The List

So here it is. The List...

#1. Write the list (an easy item to check off!) COMPLETED
#2. Rent every movie I've always wanted to watch but didn't, begin chronologically with Bus Stop. IN PROCESS
#3. Donate items to charity including subtlely sweaty and sweet smelling alma mater sweatshirts from ex-boyfriends/ex-dates/ex-repair men, soft fuzzy stuffed bunny, and compilation CD of "our songs". COMPLETED
#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
#5. Pay off a credit card ($798.13 to go).
#6. Build something. Out of wood. With tools. Assembling "something" from box labelled Ikea with Allen key does not count. COMPLETED
#7. Do online research to discover why above mentioned tool is called an Allen key.
#8. Sign up for a dance class (leg warmers optional).
#9. Wait in line at a book signing for author's autograph. Book topic/ title do not matter, as too busy checking items off list to read. Make small talk. Add book to items to be donated to charity.
#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
#11. Take cooking class.
#12. Learn foreign language.
#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
#15. Run a 5km race.
#16. Get a fab new haircut (perhaps the biggest challenge on the list...what else can you do with curly hair except wear it a la SJP?). COMPLETED
#17. Join a "non-competitive" sports team (but secretly play competitively). COMPLETED
#18. Get a tattoo.
#19. Attempt karaoke [again].
#20. Run through a sprinkler (naked optional).
#21. Get card/palm reading done from well-known local psychic. COMPLETED
#22. Hob nob with minor Canadian celebrity.
#23. Add more items to list.

Items on the list can be completed in any order. My posts will follow my progress on the above list and many other "regular-life" adventures.

When I told my sister about the list, she asked if I'd make an exception (ie. about the dating drought) if asked out by a really great guy (she means really really great guy). Every rule has an exception, right?

Inception of The List

If there's one thing a single girl knows...it's lists. We have lists for bloody everything: to-do list (clean house, change bulb in back-up lights on car), grocery list (milk, bagels, Carmen Electra's Striptease video collection #1 and 2), list of qualities we want in a potential guy we date (sense of humor, obsessed with Scrabble, employed), and pros/cons list of reasons to date or not to date a guy (pro: good manners, con: bad hygiene). Once we've settled into a cosy relationship, we still make lists...like the dreaded list of reasons why a guy hasn't proposed (contracted rare form of bacteria which has rendered him temporarily insane AND without use of speech. Come on MDs of the world - you've absolutely got to find a cure for this!).

The list I've decided to make is the list to end all lists (or at least temporarily replace some of those mentioned above). I'll give you the Reader's Digest version of how the idea of the list came to be. I'm sorry to report, it was because of a guy (actually this is the result of an accumulation of dating doozies with this being the proverbial bike seat that chafed my a**). So this guy..a real wanker we'll call Roger the Banker. Roger the Banker: a real wanker, has a nice rhyming effect doesn't it? (**not his real name...after all what kind of parent would name their kid Roger. If your name is Roger and you're reading this, please forgive me, I'm sure you're parents really are delightful. But this story isn't about you ok, so back to me).

Roger and I met "online". We were both signed onto a popular dating site (which shall remain nameless). Point is he was funny and smart and cute, and not your typical banker (I should know, my Dad's a banker - sorry Dad!). After chatting online for a week or two, I felt very comfortable giving Roger my cell number. We live in an area that only has so many bankers, therefore I was able to do some back ground checking. This was quite easy because Roger actually gave me his last name and I used to be a private investigator. Turns out, he was who he said he was. A relief and sometimes a rareity in the world of online dating. He called on a Sunday evening in late May (very important to note) and we chatted over the phone for about an hour. Things in common: we both have a son, both our sons have the same name, Aidan. Ok, so how would I handle that if we got married? "Aidan #1 come pick up your socks!" "Aidan #2 did you remember to make your bed?"

We agreed that a meet-and-greet was in order (in-person chemistry and all that jazz). Roger suggested we meet during the up-coming weekend or next week. I said that sounded like a plan (albeit not a firm one). He said he'd call through the week to confirm, plan where to meet, etc. Fade to over joyous singleton modestly (ok ok, proudly) telling her colleagues that a date with a banker, correction, a bank manager was in works for the weekend. I know, I know Roger didn't say for sure it would be the weekend, he left the option open to meet the next week. But I figured what guy would want to wait? My coworkers (the advice givers that they are) suggested that Aidan squared was not a dealbreaker (Dr. Phil speak). But fact that he owns a condo in another city, which his ex-girlfriend lives in (the condo, and the city) with their son because gosh darn it, he didn't want his son living in a slum...THAT might be an issue. Not that I question his pure desire to see his son raised in a nice area but the fact that his ex lives there and nice-as-can-be leaves and stays with her sister when he is in town, tells me they could still be together and he has Navy-syndrome (a girl in every port). The weekend went by...no call from Roger. The next week went by...no call from Roger. But wait, what's this? An email.

Email #1: Turns out Roger didn't forget about me after all. He just got really busy at work. *ahem* Obviously, he was sending this info via email to gauge my level of annoyance. He also wanted to know if I had forgotten about him. I carefully chose words for a reply (remember: light and breezy, light and breezy!). I advised Roger that I too had been quite busy and vaguely remembered our phone convo.

Email #2: Point taken, he was a wanker (my words) for not calling and dropping off the face of the earth. Was glad I hadn't been waiting by phone (I think a 90's pop-culture phrase could be employed well here...as if!) . Was I too busy to go for a drink? I checked my date book for the upcoming week: appointment with Sandra for hair trim/ brow tint, clean house, coach soccer, check oil in car, go for jog, clean house. Ofcourse I could have made time. But the real question was, did I want to? I think we all know what I told Roger. Advised Roger that I was free. On June 24th (keep in mind this would amount to approximately three weeks of waiting time). I appologized for the time delay but my very active cupid-wantabe coworkers had blind dates arranged for me (not exactly untrue as they frequently doing this but to be honest, I didn't have anything scheduled for the next couple of weeks).

Email #3: He accepted, June 24th. Part of me was happy Roger was willing to make plans that far in advance. Part of me lost some respect for him that he was willing to do that. He wanted to have a "phone date" in the meantime and find out more about these blind dates...after all he's quite competitive (which is probably the one thing I actually know about men). I'll spare you the details of my confusion over what a phone date entails...

Cut to hour-long phone convo number two. Roger really wanted to know details of other blind dates and who these guys were. Did not give him any satisfaction. At the end of the conversation, I asked him what he had in mind for our date on the 24th. Roger opted to chat before then and would choose something based on date activities I did with blind dates; he wanted to out do them. Again, he reminded me how competitive he is. You don't say...I was tempted to have a bit of fun with this and advise Roger that one of my blind dates took me to Paris. My coworkers (who had no use for Roger the Banker by this time) thought this would be quite funny. But I do have a conscience (I know, who knew?).

In the end, Roger didn't call. We didn't go out on the 24th. I had been beaten at my own game. I know, I asked for it. The whole ordeal (one of many many oh so many) had left me disillusioned with the whole dating scenario. And then, an idea popped into my head. To avoid future dating frustrations like above (at least in the short term) I was going to make a list. A list to end all lists. A list of things I had to do before I was able to accept another dating invitation. Items on the list were things I always wanted to do or should do but kept putting off (white water rafting, watching Debbie Does Dallas) because I was waiting to be in a relationship before taking them on. Some of the things are also just for fun and have no purpose what so ever other than to keep me busy (to avoid thinking about the dating I'm not doing). Or just for the sheer knowledge or enjoyment it will bring (see item #2 and 7).