Sunday, 6 September 2015

That Soundtrack Moment...

...when you hear a song and it just somehow imbeds itself in your life for a moment.

I'm not a musical person per se, but I love music. It is almost always on when I'm at home. Or walking to work. At the gym. In the car. When I'm writing. Actually I just always have music on.

This song has been on repeat as I've been hammering out my next post, so I thought I'd share it. You might not like it, and that's ok. But I'm digging Matt Corby right now, so you're stuck with it.


xoxo,
A

Wednesday, 19 August 2015

They Say Change is Good...

Change - noun: a transformation or modification; alteration.

I've been staring at that definition for a few days now. As per usual, I've written, erased, and rewritten this post a million times (and I'm now finishing it after the fact...oops). But I keep coming back to this one thought: nothing in the definition of change suggests that it will ever be easy. Perhaps change is good...but it is not easy.

There is a big change happening for me. It's probably a commonplace occurrence to many people; I'm in the process of moving into a new apartment (and procrastinating unpacking by writing this). Those of you who know me well, (likely most of you since I think my readers are basically my close friends...and my dear momsy) know that moving into a new apartment means I am officially roommate-less. I have been dreading this inevitable moment since my roommate started dating her boyfriend.

This is not your average roomie situation. First off, she's one of my closest friends. Fuck that. She's the sister I never had (yup, that's cliché, but it's true). My parents refer to her as their pseudo-daughter. For the nearly three years that we've been living together, I have jokingly referred to us as non-lesbian life partners (the term was born on a night where we ventured into the world of scotch...only to determine the particular scotch we tried that night tasted like someone had asked us to lick an old cow hide painted with gasoline; how's that for a tasting note?). And now...my non-lesbian life partner is leaving me. She's moving away to Calgary...for a man. Like, WTF roomie.

Nine years ago, sitting in a not-so-gracefully aging lecture theatre awaiting the start of my first nursing class, I would not have pictured this. I would not have imagined I'd still be single, living with one of my closest friends, and trying to figure out life when it's nothing like you imagined it would be. Nine years ago, I was living with my then boyfriend (a jackass of epic proportions...I would delve into that, but it involves dredging up so much past bullshit). I was going into nursing as a back-up plan. I needed to ace the MCAT on my second attempt and then apply to medicine, and nursing seemed like an appropriate stepping stone. Life seemed somewhat sorted. And then, through nursing, I had the amazing opportunity to go overseas and spend a six weeks working in Mozambique with my future roomie.

To say that trip changed my life is an understatement of a lifetime. I left Canada for the first time at 25 years old, embarked on a trip that would take me away from my jackass boyfriend for the longest we had ever been apart (at the time, I only suspected just how much of a jackass he really was), and all with the roomie at my side. I came home after three months of traversing Mozambique, South Africa, Namibia, Botswana and Zambia as a very single, enlightened 25 year old woman - with a new bestie.

My (now former) non-lesbian life partner has stood by my side through some of the worst times in my life, with a glass of wine in hand for each of us. She has celebrated with me in countless good times...also with a glass of wine in hand...is there a theme here? This fucking change is more than merely moving to a new place and setting up house. It means my go-to for bitching about work will no longer be here when I get home. The person who has a glass of wine/scotch/other delicious cocktail waiting for me after a rough day will be six hours away. No one else will make sure there are leftovers for my shifts, and if I leave clothes on the drying rack they will not magically make their way to my bedroom, neatly folded (unless I can order some laundry elves on Amazon? I've gotten everything else on there...). I can't count on my new neighbours to be respectful when I've just worked three night shifts. And there will be no one at home during Christmas who will be as excited as I am for the first spiced rum and eggnog.

Yes, I'm whining. And yes, I've been completely spoiled for the last three years. So spoiled that when the option of having another roommate (aka cheaper rent) came up, I turned it down. I have had the crème de la crème of roommates, and no one else will do. If I ever actually move in with another guy or get married, they are going to have some mighty big shoes to fill.

But, because I'm so mature (and because I just opened a bottle of bubbly to enjoy in my new apartment), I can step back and see the bigger picture here. I am incredibly happy for my roomie/non-lesbian life partner/pseudo-sister/BFF. I love her, and I love her and her bf together. I'm no psychic fortune teller (if I was I'd stop bitching about being single because I'd either know I have to suck it up and love my single life, or I'd be chilling out waiting for Prince Charming to show up...preferably in the form of Charlie Hunnam á la Sons of Anarchy), but this guy is the one for her. If I'm wrong, then I have the worst intuition on Earth and should give up dating...wait a minute...(ha!).

So...cheers! (Don't worry, I'm holding my glass up and fake cheers-ing.) To change being good for you; despite it being difficult, tear-filled, and heartbreaking at times. Salut! To one of the most important people in my life finding love and throwing herself into it - it's inspiring. A votre santé! To closing one chapter and opening another...and to a few more glasses of vino in the very near future (like, right now, since the bottle is open).

A

Wednesday, 5 August 2015

Stuff and Shit and Things

Oh, hey there.

I probably should have mentioned that come summer, (which kicks off by me devouring as much live music as possible at the Jazz Festival) I would likely disappear from the blogging world. When your summer can be as short as Sasky summers can be, they tend to be crammed tight with activities.

That was also totally an excuse, so I hope you can forgive me. I've been busy, but I've also been avoiding you. Skirting the issue of dating, yet somehow still dating. Yes, even I'm confused by that.

You see, stuff has happened. There have been dates. There have been make-outs and a hook-up and someone who caught me off guard. I fell harder than I would have imagined I could still fall for someone (especially when it comes to someone imminently leaving), and I watched as he walked away. I deleted and re-downloaded Tinder numerous times. I went on a few more dates, and deleted Tinder again. I considered rejoining the legit online dating world (and not just swiping left or right out of pure boredom). I was asked out on dates, I was excited, and they never materialized. I aimlessly wandered the datescape in Saskatoon and (surprisingly...ha!) came up empty handed.

In the midst of all this, I tried to write. I sometimes made a concerted effort to sit at my computer...and stare at a blank screen. I couldn't find a single sentence to communicate my rising ambivalence toward all of this dating bullshit.

I vacillate between caring about dating and giving zero fucks about dating. How dare I ever even complain about being single? I have the freedom to do whatever the fuck I want; I answer only to my conscience, my bank account, and whatever semblance of adult responsibility I have. Also...I don't have cancer, I wasn't born into a war-torn third world country, I'm not dying of starvation or being sold into slavery, and I'm not a lion named Cecil (Hahaha...too soon?). Life is good.

But I'm a human being and I crave companionship. I'm ok on my own - in fact a lot of times I almost prefer being on my own (see above - I have the freedom to do whatever the fuck I want). But there are times when the sting of loneliness is all too real. Times where I meet someone who rekindles something; a feeling I had resigned myself to believing I would never experience again. But, of course, life intervenes and fear takes hold. And for one ridiculous reason or another, we hold each other at arm's length despite wanting to pull each other in and never let go. These times are what stopped me from writing. Somehow they simultaneously destroy and build up my will to date.

I'm entering familiar hypocritical territory, I know. We all do it..."I'm never drinking again." After a particularly crazy long weekend, who didn't say this on Monday? I did. And then tried to cure my ugly sinus cold with a hot toddy (click here for the recipe - it only succeeded in making me pass out, the cold still reigns). Riiiiight, NEVER drinking again.


I know my friends have heard that same statement directed at men/dating/relationships..."I'm so done with men." And then within a week I manage to meet someone, go on a date, or make out with someone on a dance floor (my mom is so proud right now). I go through this cycle at least once a week. I mean month...no, wait, I mean a year. Yeah, once a year. The ambivalence cycle. Does everyone do this? Do all you single people out there waver from super-excitement because you've met someone new (I'm talking, playing the Rocky theme, air-punching at the top of some stairs because you're so pumped up) to being utterly forlorn shitty date after shitty date (and hence listening to the finest sad bastard music this world has to offer)?

I'm kind of exhausted just re-reading this. But that must be the sinus cold. Yup, the cold. Time for another hot toddy...

A

Thursday, 18 June 2015

This. Is. The. BEST.

For various reasons, you all have to watch this. And I mean you have to. Because...

1. I have just downloaded Aziz Ansari's book, Modern Romance, and I'm way too excited to read it. So excited I will abandon my current read (a nonfiction tale of the Indian capital of Delhi and how it has woven its way through the centuries to its current state...yes, that was what I am/was reading, and it was surprisingly captivating).

2. Aziz Ansari is the fucking bomb. Dude is hilarious.

And...

3. Dick pics. Are. Everywhere. My ball team even had a rousing discussion about dick pics over pints last night, which is what inspired me to post this video. I mean, Aziz Ansari is hilarious enough, but his take on the weird phenomena of dick pics is pure fucking gold.

So, enjoy!

A

Monday, 4 May 2015

'Tis Better...Right?






I'd like to call bullshit on the above quote from Lord Tennyson's poem, In Memorium A.H.H., but that would be my bangry side rearing it's ugly head. I've spent a few weeks ruminating on the quote; trying to decide if I believe it to be true, or if I've finally succumbed to my bitterness towards love and therefore believe the quote to be a big, steaming, heaping, gigantic pile of bullshit. I'm waffling.

A few weeks ago I made an appearance at my cousin's birthday party (doesn't that make me sound soooo important?), and instead of over-imbibing on shots with my family, I found myself having an unexpected conversation with a good friend of my aunt's. I had heard this very successful, strong woman was about to be getting remarried, and being the polite girl I am (*cough* can you be a polite girl and swear like a trucker?), I congratulated her and asked the cliche questions women ask about weddings; when were they getting married? Where would the wedding be? Blah, blah, blah. Her answer caught me off guard - and absolutely amazed me. They would be getting married rather soon, as her fiance has terminal cancer and they were eager to spend the time he has left, together.

We talked a more, and the remainder of the conversation, now, is a blur in my memory. But I vividly remember her beautiful smile betraying the tears that started to gather in her eyes. And that quote drifted into my mind..."'Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all."

Bullshit. Right? I have racked up many lost loves - sob stories of this not working out, or that guy being a jerk, the timing not being right, or having someone walk away because I can't conceive children. Am I better off because I fell in love with someone and they spent the months we lived together screwing other women? Am I ahead in life because I fell head-over-heels in love with a guy who told me he wanted to marry me (during a wedding no less - gents, DO NOT tell a girl you want to marry them while you're at a wedding; we are vulnerable, and WE WILL believe you) and then three weeks later told me he no longer wanted to be in a relationship? One side of me would answer with a resounding NO! and insist that quote is absolute fucking bullshit.

Except...that means it's all in vain. All this effort we make (ok, ok, the effort I make) to find someone is for naught. If we're better off having never felt love at all, why bother looking for it in the first place?

For the sake of a beautiful smile that betrays tears. Because my heart soared when my ex leaned over as the bride walked down the aisle and asked when we should get married. For the sake of having a relative stranger approach you with two glasses and a bottle of wine and telling you it was time the two of you got to know each other - and having that moment change your life. Because one amazing first date with an electric connection can turn into a whirlwind that could end in disaster...but...it might just end in love.

I dated a guy last year for a few months, and he took my breath away. Terribly cheesy to say, I know, but he did. He was fantastic - funny, intelligent, thoughtful, good-looking, and holy fuck did he have some amazing abs (yes, sometimes I'm shallow). One day, he did something I secretly hoped someone would do for me (or maybe not so secretly since my good friends know that making this particular gesture would render me putty in the right guy's hands). And I fell. Hard. Despite every inch of me trembling subconsciously for fear of being hurt, I fell. A few weeks after this small, sweet gesture, he decided to walk away from whatever was blooming between us, and it crushed me.

His reason? Fear.

So on one hand, you have that. An amazing person (who is also a giant pussy) and myself - who succumb to that fear far too often. And on the other hand, you have a woman facing an impossible situation - and she jumps right in, heart bare, and loves. If that isn't proof, I don't know what is. It is, in fact, "better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all."

And just like that, my resolve to stop dating flies out the window. My logic may be very flawed and my heart may be scarred, but since when does love coincide with logic? And maybe dudes dig scars just as much as chicks do.

A

Thursday, 16 April 2015

Stop! In the Name of Love!

If you are not singing Diana Ross and the Supremes to yourself, we can no longer be friends...but you should keep reading my blog. Obvi.

So...what if I just stopped dating?

This million dollar question seeps into my mind every time I meet someone and, yet again, it doesn't work out. I meet someone, we go on a few dates...maybe even a fair number of dates...they seem really into me, I let my guard down and allow myself to get excited...it ends, and I think...what if I just stopped?

I have now spent two days staring at that question, deciding how serious I am and whether or not I could actually stop (I sound like a junkie). Somehow, this time, it feels like it just might be the epiphany I've been waiting for when it comes to my perpetually single life. Only not an epiphany at all since I chew on this idea a lot. But then I always manage to meet such a nice guy who, really, I should give a shot because how often do I meet an attractive, intelligent guy who just seems so...nice? Always. The answer is always: because every time I meet someone and I'm attracted to them they seem like such a great guy...until they're not.

I have done quite a bit of dating in the recent past. Ok...if I'm really honest, the last few years have been pockmarked with several mini-relationships that last between a few weeks to a couple of months. Each time I walk away more embittered with the idea of being a single who is ready to mingle. And each time, someone comes along, and despite feeling I should maybe just take a moment for myself...I throw caution to the wind and make out with them on a dance floor. Or we lock eyes across a pool in Mexico and BAM! I'm in a long-distance relationship. I'm consciously deciding to pursue whatever comes my way (while attempting to maintain some standards, of course) because there's this little voice at the back of my mind that wonders...what if I walk away from this new, fabulous guy and he turns out to be the one?

Answer: if I walk away and he's really the man of my dreams, he'll be back - and so will I.

So here is my thought today. Perhaps I should make a conscious decision not to date. I have always been boy-crazy. I've spent a large part of my life either in a relationship or seeking one out. What if I took a little break? Re-focused my energy on something else...like expanding my shoe collection, or really developing my palate for wine. I'm only half-kidding...I should probably curb my spending habits a little, but certainly not my wine intake.

I want to clarify one thing: I'm not saying this because everyone seems to think the foolproof strategy for dating is that you'll meet your soulmate when you're not looking; right when you least expect it. Everyone (and by everyone I mean many of my friends who are in relationships and met their husband/wife/significant other "just when they least expected it") likes to say this. As a single girl of a certain age who has met several people when I least expected it, I have the right to say, fuck off. Purposefully ceasing your dating efforts with the idea that you will magically find your knight in shining armour is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. I should start a blog solely dedicated to the stupid shit people say to single people.

I'm sure after a month-ish long absence this is not what you wanted to hear. Especially if you've just showed up, basked in my brilliance when it comes to writing about my doomed life as a single prairie girl (ha!) and then waited with bated breath for what would come next. This is a dating blog, for fuck's sake! How can I write about dating if I'm not going to date!?

Ummm, that's a valid question you have there. I can't really write a blog about dating if I don't date. But I'm becoming quite the expert on navigating the life of a single girl in a prairie city. So, there's that. Plus I have some very intelligent anecdotes to share (the emphasis here conveys sarcasm...I've been writing this blog for almost a year people, where the fuck is my sarcasm font!?). Like, do you think the creators of Back to the Future II (where Marty McFly travels ahead to October 2015) are disappointed in the reality of 2015 as compared to what they imagined? Because we don't have hover boards (unless the government is using them in top secret missions I'm not privy to) and my car flies but only because I do 140 km/h on the highway...

Buckle up folks, you just hopped onto my mental roller coaster and it's bound to be one hell of a ride.

A

Monday, 9 March 2015

Fifty Shades of F'd Up Indeed...

Like so many other hot-blooded women in the world (and this guy who totally got busted, and it is absolutely hilarious) I succumbed to my curiosity and went to see Fifty Shades of Grey a couple of weeks ago. If you read that sentence and were disappointed with me, I'm sorry....I swear I'm smarter than that, but I couldn't resist. After reading the first book and abandoning the second part-way through, I had to see what the fuss was about.

Ok fine, I'll admit it. My curiosity was completely related to the sex scenes and how they would translate to the big screen. Or, as one of my wonderful friends would say, "do they show the P going into the V?"

Now you know the awful truth...I watched the movie purely for the sex scenes. Oh, and I actually read those atrocious books. Well, one and a half of them. In my defence, however, I only read the first one due to my occasional commitment to a book club (shift work really fucks up your ability to make regularly scheduled commitments). I started the second book out of boredom on a night shift (dirty secret #3: I read that smut at work...gasp!!) and about halfway through I started skipping the endless, mind-numbing descriptions of Anastasia staring up at Christian from beneath her eyelashes and biting her lip, and heading straight to the sex scenes.

Side note: how the fuck does one look up at someone from beneath their eyelashes and come off as attractive? The first time I read that in the book, I wondered about it. When I came across it for the millionth time (this is no joke, she does it so much in the book I thought I'd never get to a sex scene), I tried to recreate the look in the mirror. The result was not pretty, and I'm fairly certain if I looked at a guy that way I would immediately be taken to the emergency department for fear that I was having a seizure or a stroke. But I digress.

Isn't everyone who's taking in that movie doing it to see the sex scenes? Aren't we all just a little bit curious as to how they take softcore porn from a terribly written "romance" novel and turn it into a supposed blockbuster film that grossed over $500 million in global box offices? Yes, yes we are. Especially since the sex in the books pushes the boundaries on what people consider "normal" sexual activity and displays a BDSM lifestyle for the world to see.

As I watched the movie I found myself surprisingly astonished at how explicit the sex scenes were. It seems I was expecting a modicum of restraint with respect to that aspect of the book, which is funny given the only portions I paid much attention to in the books was, in fact, the sex scenes. And there was definitely P going into the V in the book. I'm not generally a very critical movie-goer; I see films for their entertainment purpose and my evaluation of them goes just barely beyond their most superficial presentation. I.e. my biggest disappointment is when a movie's best scenes are in the trailer. And if a comedy can make me laugh, then I like it. If a scary movie can scare the shit out of me (which most of them do because I'm a complete chicken shit when it comes to scary movies), then I think it did its job.

My biggest critiques of Fifty Shades? Number 1: Anastasia gets wildly expensive and ridiculous gifts from Christian...an Audi, an Apple laptop (no luxury brand marketing happening there, nope, none at all)...yet she uses a fucking flip phone. If Christian was really the control freak they purport his character to be, he would have bought her a bloody iPhone 6 to go with that new laptop.  Movie producers, you dropped the ball on that one. Critique number 2: there are several scenes in the movie where glasses of wine are poured, but never consumed. What is wrong with these people!? You're about to let a man use nipple clamps and whip your most sensitive body parts...do you not need a little wine on board for that?? Was there a position on set for someone to go around drinking all of the wine that was poured? Because if so, I need that job.

I was serious when I said I'm not overly critical of movies.

I know, I know...films are an art form; and what is art if not a commentary on some facet of the larger social context in which the art is produced? If that's the case, I should really get into some deeper screenings of some of my favourites. Dumb and Dumber obviously has some greater meaning to it, not merely the discovery of the most annoying sound in the world and the difference between a pull-over and a cardigan. Back to the point...can you tell I'm writing this on less than 8 hours of sleep in the last day and a half? Sex is absolutely pervasive in our society; wasn't it just a matter of time before it became so overt as to allow porn screenings under the guise of a "blockbuster romance film?"

To that point, I have to share this with you: a video of Russell Brand (click here to watch) sharing his views on sex, porn, and its prevalence in today's society - including its prevalence in mainstream media and how that affects us little human beings consuming this on a daily basis. I came across the video whilst surfing Facebook a few days after I'd seen the Fifty Shades movie (we all know "surfing Facebook" is a euphemism for "online stalking") and frankly, I couldn't have shared my own views in any more of a concise or well-articulated manner.

You know what they say about curiosity?

It killed the cat.

A

Wednesday, 25 February 2015

The Thing of It Is...

So amidst a number of overtime shifts that nearly killed me and my will to live due to sheer exhaustion (how people work Monday to Friday jobs and wake up every single morning to go to work with only two days off between is a complete mystery to me), I had an epiphany. A tiny realization of one of the most influential and essential aspects of any good relationship. And it is completely and utterly out of a person's control.

Timing.

This is likely not something new to you and it's not exactly new to me, either. I've had a few situations over the years where the timing of meeting someone just did not jive with me or my current life state. But until recently, I don't think I realized just how crucial timing is.

You could be a perfectly awesome woman - a single woman with a lot to offer who has, as of late, been losing faith in the idea of good men existing in your world. And BAM! you could meet (or in my case, have someone from your past be reinserted in your life in an entirely new context) a perfectly awesome, good man. You guys could even spend a bit of time together, and you might even get excited at the prospect of someone who you not only connect with, but who might just hold some kind of potential for the future. And maybe even, instead of being your normal neurotic and impatient self, you're relaxed. You calmly anticipate whatever is coming because this guy seems like he's worth getting to know, whatever the pace.

And then...bad timing steps in; and despite your mutual awesome-ness, this new thing is just not going to go anywhere right now. And the only thing you can do is realize it, accept it, and move on.

Does anyone else ever just get pissed off at having to be mature about a situation and move on from it? Sometimes I want to revert to being a 5 year old who threw an absolute hissy fit at my mom who had to put me in the porch until I calmed myself down (my mom will remember what this hissy fit was about and exactly how old I was, I just remember being insanely irrational, ridiculous and feeling so ashamed after I was done losing my shit). This, of course, would get me nowhere right now. But somehow I feel like it might be satisfying to scream at the top of my lungs and flail my limbs around a little. You know, show the universe how frustrated I am.

I did not throw a tantrum, just so you know. (I am definitely superbly excellent at bad timing, FYI, hence being the female version of Good Luck Chuck.) Instead, I surprised myself. There was no resurgence of the bitterness I usually feel when yet another attempt at dating fails (which I feel means I am actually maturing, not just getting older chronologically...however there was a little dance floor make-out sesh the other night that would suggest otherwise, HA!). I had my little epiphany, and realized that beating myself up over something out of my control is useless.

The thing of it is, and I shit you not...timing is everything when it comes to dating. If the timing isn't right, anything you push forward in terms of a relationship is going to be lopsided. One person is going to be all-in, the other person isn't going to be able to open themselves up for that, and eventually, it's not going to end well (trust me, I speak from experience). I don't need to put myself in another situation that's inevitably going to hurt me, and I certainly don't want to force yet another relationship out of my need for companionship. Who knows why I would finally (like really, finally) meet a great guy only to have bad timing intervene and dash any hopes I have. Maybe this a way for the universe to let me know that good men still exist, and I might one day actually meet one with impeccable timing...? Maybe what's coming around the corner is even better? Maybe I just need to calm the fuck down and roll with the punches a little more?

Wait a minute...who is this positive person with some sliver of hope glimmering in the darkness heretofore known as her dating life!? I mean, holy shit, am I actually learning something out of all this??? Is it possible that I've gained some wisdom???

This is what goes through my mind anytime I have these little epiphanies that make me feel like I might actually be a grown-up...then I remember my shopaholic tendencies and my propensity for drinking far too much wine and I let out a sigh of relief...I'm not a grown-up...yet.

A

Wednesday, 11 February 2015

Every Single Girl's Favourite Time of Year...

This past weekend I worked a string of night shifts that delivered a swift kick in the ass to my feelings of bangriness toward dating (bitter + angry = bangry, in case you forgot my brilliance in creating a new word). This is part of why I find my job amazing; nursing, if you let it, gives you a great perspective on life. So despite feeling exhausted, I was feeling pretty revived and grateful. And then I picked up an overtime night shift. And then I got completely exhausted, cranky, and really emotional. And then I remembered something...

...Valentine's Day is coming.

My plan, as far as the blog went, was to completely ignore V Day. I wasn't going to post a damn thing about it. Instead, I was going to post about the new book I'm reading, which claims it will turn me into an "ultra successful dating winner." Sounds almost as awful as V Day, doesn't it? (I decided on one of my night shifts that if I'm writing about dating I should do some research. It came recommended from a fellow single gal, and the name of the book, It's Just a F***ing Date was just too intriguing. I'm sure it'll snake its way into the blog soon. Click the title to check it out.)

I suppose, however, any dating blogger worth their salt has to address V Day. I can't very well just ignore the one day a year where love is supposed to be exalted and the world should be showered in candy and roses, can I?

Well, I could, but then I'd be missing out on sharing my oh-so-original hatred of this Hallmark holiday.

If I had my way, every V Day would be spent the way I spent it in 2012: on vacation with two of my most wonderful friends in Puerto Vallarta. I started the dreaded V Day by doing "fuck Valentine's Day" shots with a gentleman who had been dumped the day prior to he and his girlfriend leaving for said vacation destination. It was 9 am. The remainder of the day was spent downing piña coladas, being proposed to by a 20 year old rugby player with a ring made from a $1 bill, burying each other in the sand and pouring drinks down our throats, and really, just having fun. Granted, I became violently ill at supper time (I say food poisoning, but I mean, shots at 9 am may have been the culprit), but I would still rather be in Mexico hugging my porcelain prince rather than worrying about celebrating (or not) V Day.

I'm not alone in my dislike of V Day. I'm also aware that my views on V Day aren't particularly original. V Day is a massive commercially-hyped construct that society has welcomed with open arms. We all see the advertisements telling us (for the most part) that women should be showered with flowers, presents, wined and dined (and one would hope at least 69-ed) and made to feel extra-special on love day. I'm not sure if dudes get as much attention from the ad execs, but it's the same idea - men should receive a display of lingerie or some sort of special present (ladies, I'm quite certain a well-timed blow job would be just as good as a new watch, I've heard a lot of guys whine about not getting enough blow jobs). Basically, you should spend money on someone so they feel special.

Well, ok. Sometimes that's a great way to make a person feel loved (listen, I would NEVER say no to being gifted a great pair of shoes, so I don't have a leg to stand on in hating the commercialism of V Day). But something about the way V Day is presented makes me feel like people might think it's the only day you should celebrate how much you love/like/lust the person you're with. I don't want to be in a relationship where the only time my man friend shows me his feelings is the day a bunch of retail executives have decided to exploit those feelings to make a buck (add that to my ever growing list of requirements). For a relationship to work, shouldn't there be effort on both sides to express those feelings regularly? I mean, shouldn't we be made to feel special all year round? (Translation: shouldn't someone be buying me shoes and bringing me coffee at work on the regular? And then I suppose I should be going down on my man like there's no tomorrow...but alas, no man to go down on and I buy my own shoes.)

I'm laughing right now because I can't remember the last functional relationship I was in, so me having an opinion on how to maintain one is kind of hilarious.

Either way, I don't like V Day. I don't like having to watch commercial after commercial reminding me that it's coming, and I don't think people should focus all of their romantic energy on one single day. I would find a man just as romantic if he brought me coffee during a random night shift as I would if he orchestrated a grand gesture on V Day. I think when you look back, it's those little things that count, and for me they've always overshadowed any grand gestures in past relationships. I still have the blanket a long-ago ex gave me because he knew I got cold in my bedroom at night and wanted it to feel like he was giving me a hug; I know he did something amazing for my birthday that year, but truthfully, that blanket is all I remember.

A

Monday, 9 February 2015

Short & Sweet

So that last post...it was kind of a big one for me. Not only in that the post itself lay bare my biggest insecurity, but also because it was the first post I chose to share on social media; letting my twitterverse and Facebook friends be privy to all my single girl problems (which is small potatoes in the grand scheme of things, I know). I was unsure of what to expect and nervous for people to read the blog...but wow.

***Mush alert***

You people are amazing. Those of you who took the time out of your busy lives to glimpse into mine - you overwhelmed me in the best possible way. The sheer positivity of everyone's comments brought tears to my eyes. The kind souls who sent me private messages, some from rather unexpected sources, you humbled me and warmed my heart. And for those in my life who I can only refer to as my people (yes, despite it's many technical errors, I love Grey's Anatomy) - I will never be able to say thank you enough. You guys suffer through my neurotic ramblings before they make it into blog form and I probably drive you crazy, but you are just always there, because you are my people.

It's one of the most amazing feelings to invest your whole heart in something, put it out into the world, and have it well-received; so from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

***End mush alert***

Now let's get back to bitching about dating (still waiting on that sarcasm font guys...).

A





Friday, 6 February 2015

This, is a tough one. A really tough one.

So this post might be a bit of a departure from my regular (hopefully) sarcastic and witty, dating-related posts. However, this subject is something so inextricably linked to my love life (or lack thereof) that I'm almost surprised I haven't written about it yet.

That's a lie, I'm well aware of why I haven't written a post about it. The subject is painful. I've written pages upon pages of diary entries about it but they all end the same way - fading into blank spaces that ache with emptiness. This post has sat dormant for months. I come back to it, rework it, and then let it sit. I think it's sat long enough (which probably means I've spent at least another week or two revamping it). I'm not sure I can convey how tender this subject is. It's vexing, not only to concisely discuss my situation, but also expose a part of me I consider to be the seat of my vulnerability and self esteem...so...this feels scarier than doing the world's highest commercial bungee jump (been there, done that, and it was a piece of cake compared to this; how silly is that?).

I cannot conceive children.

Were you waiting for something crazier than that? Something life-threatening or drastic? Maybe you guessed it. Either way, there it is. Not an overly shocking revelation in itself. Thousands of couples in Canada experience infertility - roughly 16% according to the government. Except I'm not a couple. I'm an otherwise healthy 32 year-old woman who wakes up every morning, takes hormone replacements, and is reminded that instead of being "normal," she's menopausal. (Ladies, hot flashes are the fucking devil, I kid you not. Thank God I don't have to deal with mood swings or I think we would all know exactly why I'm still single.)

When you learn this at 17, you know it affects your future but you don't see the totality of it. At 24, when a fertility specialist lays it all out on the line - that your best chance of "naturally" having a child is to find an egg donor and do in vitro fertilization - reality comes crashing in. You realize that one thing you have always wanted - to be graced with the privilege of having children - may never happen. At 29, when you're unceremoniously dumped because you can't conceive children, the bigger picture starts coming into focus. It becomes clear that 9 times out of 10 the guy you just went on a date with will probably run for the hills once you share this little gem. Most people want a family, but they don't want to go about getting it the hard way. At 30, when you still haven't met that tenth guy and your personal deadline for attempting to carry a child comes and goes...well, the big picture is in sharp focus and it's glaringly obvious. Not only is that prospect of having children floating further and further away, but the idea of finding your soulmate seems to be following suit. Suddenly, you realize this shit is just not going down the way you pictured it; a remarkably difficult thing to accept.

I'm not quiet about my infertility. Most of my friends know, my family knows, and I'll freely share it if the conversation steers toward having children; which it frequently does when you're a thirty-something single woman. I can't begin to count how many times I've been asked why I'm single, why I don't have any children, or how come I'm not "hopping on the marriage and kids bandwagon" (that's an actual quote, mentally I screamed I would gladly jump on the fucking bandwagon if it came anywhere near me; in reality I smiled and cracked some joke about being single by choice). I find it amazing that it would be considered uncouth to discuss my sex life in public, but commenting on or criticizing something as intimate as my reproductive choices/situation is just considered standard conversation.

I came across an online article in early December that brought this all to the forefront of my mind (now you know how long it actually has taken me to write this) - something that happens cyclically for me depending on what's going on in my life. Some days/weeks/months I'm at peace with this situation - it's part of who I am, but doesn't define me or my worth. Other times...other times I don't know how to describe it in a way that most people would understand. All I know is the aching of those blank diary pages does not compare to the visceral, gaping hole that threatens to swallow me if I let it.

The article talked about "Why giving women shit for not having babies is one of the most fucked-up things you can do." I don't think I need to tell you, but I agree. I've spent 15 years contemplating what having a family would look like for me. I've run through all the possibilities: egg donors, in vitro, surrogacy, adoption...every last one of those costs a lot - financially and emotionally. I lean more and more towards just not having children. For whatever reason (and only God knows the fucking fucked up reason for this) having children is not natural for me - why would I then force it? There's also one fact that has remained relatively constant throughout those years (feminists are going to hate me for this) - I'm still single. Call it antiquated, old fashioned, or whatever else you want, but I've always wanted at least that to come about in the "normal" fashion. I don't think it's crazy to want to find my person (my man - the right guy, for me) before I start pursuing having a family, whatever form that takes.

While that article didn't necessarily speak to my exact situation, I can identify with it. But I wish I could extend it one step further. I'd suggest we all realize that every single person, man and woman alike, have different circumstances in their lives that bring about varying opinions about bearing and raising children. Sometimes the decision about having children is taken completely out of a person's hands. So perhaps, instead of chastising or teasing someone about their lack of children, just stop and remember - the person you're talking to could be someone who has no choice in the matter. And that person might just appreciate an attempt at empathy instead of yet another reminder that their biological clock is ticking.

A

P.S. - When I watched the documentary on the Dixie Chicks' documentary Shut Up and Sing a number of years ago, it was a relief to learn two of the band members had dealt with infertility in their marriages. And then to learn they'd written a song about it, well, it was crazy that not only would a song speak to me about this part of my life, but also be so accurate when it comes to describing it..."It felt like a given, something a woman's born to do...And I'd feel so guilty, if that was a gift I couldn't give." You might not love the Dixie Chicks like I do, but you should watch this, it might give you an inkling of how I feel.


Monday, 2 February 2015

Bitter what?

So I know I said that letting the bitterness seep in was really no alternative to keeping a positive outlook when it comes to dating...but I'm feeling awfully bitter lately.

I've gotten a plethora of messages lately on match.com. I've ignored them all. Every time I look at someone's profile I envision myself taking out a tiny little rocket launcher, firing at their little profile picture and blowing them to smithereens while cackling and thinking to myself that I've removed one more dipshit from the very shallow dating pool in this city.

Yup, just a little bitter. Maybe I'm more angry than bitter. Or I'm a combination of the two, can a person be "bangry?" Like being hangry, but instead of hungry and angry, I'm bitter and angry. Bangry. BOOM, I just made up a word. I should enter my new word into Urban Dictionary, unless it already exists, in which case my bangriness might escalate a little bit.

Sidebar: I just searched urbandictionary.com to see if bangry is a word already (yes I know that a word being on the site doesn't really make it a word per se, but slang seems to be infiltrating Webster's so really it's only a matter of time). And it is a word!! But their definition is not quite what I'm trying to convey. Apparently it has more to do with your anger building to a point where you need to use sex to release it. Hmmm. I could very well be that definition of bangry...

Anyway.

I'm sitting here wondering why I'm keeping my match.com account. In fact I question my inability to give up on love every time I face rejection. Everyone must, right? How do you deal with rejection without going through a phase of wondering what the fuck you're doing? Well, today, I'm wondering what the fuck I'm doing.

My most recent rejection was only after a month of dating (see my last post...the bangry was in full force for that one). There was no talk of being exclusive, he had seen other people during this time, and was obviously not as into me as I was into him. I, on the other hand, actually canceled a date with someone else because I was so interested in this guy. I was considering sleeping with him because my attraction to him had reached that level (and it was starting to wear out my vibrator), and I was ready to tell him that I wasn't seeing other people. I just re-read that paragraph and am wondering how I was so off-base. When things ended - though I had an inkling at that point it wasn't meant to be - I was surprised to learn he was just not that into me.

I know for a fact I have a hard time trusting my own judgment lately. I've been so wrong about so many guys...but when I look back, was I really all that wrong, or was I clinging to them out of loneliness? Was I just so intent on finally finding someone (maybe even the one) that I managed to convince myself to press on? I'm really good at diving in, but I'm not always so good at taking a step back, critically looking at the person I'm dating, and deciding if I should keep seeing that person. I get swept away in the initial lusty stage (when there's actually chemistry between two people) and somehow I stop paying attention to things that bother me.

If I'm completely honest, I knew this most recent date was not right - he's vain, elitist, introverted, and would never have been able to come on a snowboard trip where we crushed ten people into a three bedroom condo, drank pitcher upon pitcher of beer, and ended the trip with a topless last run down the mountain and a party with 18 people in an eight person hot tub (mom, I still had my bra on if that gives you any relief). So I'm angry more with myself than anyone else - why did I let myself get attached to someone that would never fit in my life? And why wasn't it me ending things before him? (That might be a really silly thing to think, but really...through the course of our dates, how did I overlook these things and almost unconsciously decide that I could live with them rather than decide that he was just not quite what I am looking for?)

I've always been my own worst enemy, and I'm realizing more and more how much that applies to my dating life. Maybe I should have made a few New Year's resolutions...maybe one of them should be for me to...to what? I'm truthfully not even sure what to do differently when it comes to dating. I just keep going with the philosophy that I should just be me, do my thing and trust my instincts. Oh wait. There it is.

Trust my instincts.

A




P.S. - Every post I write seems to have a soundtrack to it - a few songs, or even just one, that I listen to on repeat until the lyrics are second nature. Today, it's Phosphorescent, and their album Muchacho is freaking good. Song for Zula just seems meant for me today (I so love that feeling, when a song connects to you)..."I know love as a fading thing, just as fickle as a feather in a stream..."

Check it out:





















Monday, 19 January 2015

Why not? Well...

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm back! (If there are gentlemen reading this, I'm impressed, and I'm sure you're all happy to have me back after a little holiday hiatus.)

My Christmas and New Year's season was a hectic mess of family time, seeing friends, working, and squeezing in dates amongst all that.

Yes, that's right. I said dates. Plural! As in more than one! And aside from one of them, they've all been with the same guy! This, for me, feels worthy of celebration all on its own. Add to that the fact that he is sweet, gentlemanly, intelligent, funny and good looking...and well, based on that description I should be dancing around my living room right now...

...except that while I'm so excited about this, I'm also going absolutely crazy.

I have an amazing ability to get inside my own head, chew a situation into an unrecognizable morsel, and let it sit in my belly until it makes me sick. I've spent the last week analyzing this guy and his feelings for me to death, suddenly so afraid of getting hurt I find myself on the verge of tears. I can't completely pinpoint what it is that spurred this on. It's been building since before I left for my New Year's snowboarding trip, and is now culminating in total gastric discontent (my neuroses often manifest as full-on visceral sensations...I'm trying to word it more pleasantly than saying I feel like I may destroy any toilet that I come into contact with).

Wait. My phone is ringing. It's said gentleman.

*Ten minutes later*

Turns out my neuroses are brought on by some kind of sick sixth sense, because said gentleman just decided the chemistry he's looking for isn't there (after over 10 dates he ended things with a phone call; he's not a gentleman, he's every bit the fucking child I thought he wasn't). The chemistry isn't there!? Did you decide that before or after you spent a night making out with me on your couch but pointedly not putting your hands anywhere near the places I was longing for them to go!?!? Oh, it has nothing to do with me? Well, that's pure bullshit, because guess what - as I'm the person you're apparently not that attracted to, it does have everything to do with me. Wait, no it doesn't. It has everything to do with you being an idiot. But I digress.

"I think you're great, but..."

(There's going to be a lot of f-bombs coming here people, you've been warned.)

But what? Clearly I'm not that fucking great (in your eyes) otherwise you would have kept dating me you fucking moron! I am great, it's taken me years to come to a point where I can say that about myself and actually believe it - and you're walking away from a great woman! Which in my eyes, makes you not so fucking great after all! (Side note: I started a nutrition challenge this past week which has effectively eliminated all my favourite junky foods and removed carbs, dairy and booze from my diet. I'm hangry right now. Like, really hangry.)

Rant over. Angry phase...well, that's going to take a glass/bottle/box of wine and a little bit of venting to wind up.

I've heard that statement so many times. "You're great, but...(insert cowardly, ridiculous, false, moronic cliché here)." I've worked hard not to take that line seriously, to not question myself and automatically assume that there is something wrong with me. That strength wears thin sometimes. Every now and then I look at myself in the mirror and I wonder, really, is there something wrong with me?

Well of course there's not. Aside from my road rage. And my spending habits. And maybe some of the neuroses I have going on...but given that my body was clearly trying to tell me what was coming, I think those neuroses are in fact a fabulous thing to have. So suck it, dudes who think a woman should just not be crazy. I like my level of cray cray.

So now here I sit. Staring at my reflection in the computer screen and wondering...why did I decide that Internet dating was a good idea?

Well...why not?

A

P.S. - To all the amazing, beautiful and intelligent single women out there who have heard that dreaded fucking line...you ARE great. Soak in the hurt, let it settle, and then let it go. I have to believe that someone, somewhere, someday will realize just how great I am (and you have to believe it too), because the alternative of letting bitterness seep in and ruin my appetite for love...well, that's just not an alternative at all. xoxo