Friday, September 10, 2010

UGH.

I don't think I can go on any more of these internet dates. They're starting make me feel like there's no point in living, given:
1) the state of humanity in general; and
2) the way servers continue to bring more beer instead of cheques, even when you give them a pleading stare that should make their hearts bleed and then sprint to the till to cash you out.

Here's a little quote from last night's Hurratio:

'Basically the last two years of my life have been taken up with suing the University because they won't give me enough lab space. I mean, I have to keep human skeletons in my HOUSE because of those idiots. So, that's been pretty time consuming. Well... that, and the divorce.'

HUMAN SKELETONS, INTERNET. IN HIS HOUSE.

Also: it took him over 3 hours to drink 1.5 beers. For the first time ever, I ditched a date early. I just couldn't wait the additional hour for him to finish that last half pint. No excuses, no feigned illness or 'emergency call'. I just had to go. And then I did. Yeah. I know. BRUTAL.

So Internet. If you have any ideas as to how I can meet The Dude without being subjected to further idiocy of this sort, I would love to hear them. I know you people are reading. Come ON. Help me out.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Lecture Man

As promised last time, I finally got off my callipygous little ass and went on a date. I did it for you, really; I did it for ProngTwo. The blog part, not the finding love part. Not one of us thought this date was going to result in real actual Drooling Babbling Incoherent Love, did we? I mean, a guy who ends all of his emails with a condescending "hint" is hardly the type of guy you're going to be swooning over unless he's obscenely good looking and dressed in a suit made entirely of real one hundred dollar bills. And turns out to be that guy who plays Don Draper on Mad Men. And even then... unlikely. So I trundled myself off to this date, knowing full well that it was bound to be good fodder for the blog. A blogfodder date. Is that a term? It is now.

Internet, this guy did not disappoint! And lucky for all of us, this was the kind of date wherein my role was to listen and not speak. For behold, it was a date with Lecture Man!

Lecture Topic One (2 minute mark):

Me: So... tell me about yourself.

Lecture Man: Absolutely. Just broke up with my girlfriend of four years. She kept the house. Mutal breakup. Well, between you and me I think she was cheating on me though I never got total confirmation. We had this house down by blar de blar with a detached wah wah wah and something mind-crushingly boring about getting screwed over via the first-time buyer's laws...

Me: ....

LM: ...more details about a house that I no longer own, blah, blah, blah, that BITCH kept everything.

Me [snapping to attention at the word bitch]: Right. So. Does your family live in Toronto, too?

Which led us to Lecture Topic Two (30 minute mark):

LM: Mom lives in Toronto, she was basically a single parent. I mean, I saw my Dad all the time - he lives in New York. But now we don't speak to each other. Basically, he's a little bit of an asshole. Actually, you know what? He's not just a little bit of an asshole. He's a giant asshole.

Me: ...

LM: A bunch of horrible statements about my Dad that you'd never want to hear ever, let alone on a first date.

Me [pointedly not ordering another drink]: ...

LM [ordering beer number three]: ... and that was when I was... what? Maybe ten or eleven? I mean, what a DOUCHEBAG. And then, the year I was in grade 9...

Me [with a slightly murderous edge to my voice]: Okay. So. Did you get into traveling when you were a kid, or was that when you were older?

Which led us to Lecture Topic Three (one hour mark):

LM: Have you ever been to Europe?

Me: No, but I...

LM: Oh, if you haven't been to Europe, you haven't really traveled. I've been to Italy twice. It's so amazing. You'll have to go someday. Not an option to not go. Since you haven't been, you probably don't know that in Venice, you have to get around in these BOATS called "GONDOLAS". If you get a chance, you could look that up online, but you're never going to get a real sense of the city unless you've been there because...

Me [becoming silently engrossed in the unfolding drama of a birthday party a couple of tables over]: ...

LM: ... called the Sistine Chapel. Have you heard of a painter named Michelangelo? You may have, he's pretty famous, though don't worry if you haven't. You'll probably want to read up on that before you go, though, because he was pretty important...

Me [cursing my decision not to bring a recording device to accurately capture this drivel]: hmmm, yes. I'll have to look him up.

LM: ..waxing poetic about the beauty of this city in Italy called "Rome" wherein they have a place that's part of the Catholic Church that you may not have heard about called the "VATICAN"...

Which led us to Lecture Topic Four (what may as well have been the 14 hour mark):

LM: ... the influence of the Catholic Church, something wildly inaccurate about the Pope, several rabidly anti-Catholic statements, blar de blar... Oh God, you're not CATHOLIC, are you?

Me: Nope.

LM: ... good, because those assholes...

I have no idea how we got to Lecture Topic Five, since my undivided attention was directed at thwarting LM's attempts to order beer number five and instead getting the server to bring the motherfucking CHEQUE for CHRIST'S SAKE (eternity mark):

LM: ... the G20 disaster last month. I mean, I don't vote. What's the point, right? But if I did, you can bet your ass that my vote wouldn't go for any of those corporate goons...

Me [gesturing wildly at anyone who even remotely appeared to be employed by the bar]: ...

LM: ... basically a police state within the next two years. Everyone's too busy being brainwashed by CNN to even NOTICE that....

Me [alternating between the universal sign for cheque and the universal sign for choking]: ...


LM: I'll have another pi...

Me: WE'LL TAKE THE BILL.

LM: Oh. So early? It's only 11:00.

Me: Yeah, well... it's a week night and I have to work tomorrow, so...

LM: Oh, you have one of THOSE kinds of jobs. What do you do anyway?

Me [tossing some cash on the table]: Communications. Okaytakecarenowbye.

LM [shouting after my retreating figure]: This was really fun! Let's do it again sometime soon!

I have not called Lecture Man for date number two. And now aren't we all glad that I didn't give him my phone number? Yes. Yes, we are.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Breaking News: ProngTwo date on Thursday

Yes. I know. I have a blog. I'm supposed to be running around dating like a ferret on crystal meth, and then reporting back. But y'know.... it's summertime. And who in their right mind would go on a series of dismal dates with men who have the personality of toasted cardboard when they could be frolicking* in a cherry orchard in BC? Or playing music with friends? Or going for delightful picnics in High Park with people whose company I ACTUALLY ENJOY?

* by frolicking, I mean putting in 18 hour days at my parent's commercial cherry orchard for my annual 'working vacation'. Which, while extremely fun in a hardcore sort of way, does not lend itself well to the Saturday afternoon coffee date.

Also, I have been spending a lot of time with my new boyfriend, iPhone. Once I download the iLoveMake and iRomance apps, I won't really need a real boyfriend, will I? Okay, yes, I realize that I may have ridiculed someone mercilessly for their own personal addiction to the iPhone. But it's not like I'm taking it with me on dates. Now that I have an iPhone, I don't even need to go on dates!

I know. Pathetic. You don't have to remind me, Internet. I am fully aware that one can't have a relationship with a mobile device. Stop nagging. GOD.

In the interest of fodder for this cobwebbed corner of the internet, I am going on a date on Thursday. Huuuratio IVIIX will surely provide excellent material with which to write about, since I'm already slightly annoyed by his insistence on providing his phone number at the end of each email he sends:

HIVIIX: p.s. my cell phone number is 416-xxx-xxxx. Hint: call me!

Me: You've provided that number 12 times already. Hint: I won't be calling you until I determine that you are not a psycho who will use my phone number to stalk me in the manner of Dubai Man.

I will report back.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Steve the Landlord

I've been doing a little bit of cat-sitting lately - a small favour for my friends C&G, who have looked in on my feline Spawn of Satan on occasion. And as a result, I have now met Steve the Landlord, who lives in the apartment below C&G's. Here's how we met:

On the first day of my cat-sitting stint, I arrived at the house to find Steve in the front yard mucking around in the garden. I introduced myself as the cat-sitter and proceeded to the front door where I fumbled around with the alleged front-door key like the mechanically challenged nitwit that I am. Steve, who appeared to be a COMPLETELY NORMAL PERSON, noticed that I was having trouble with the keys and offered to let me into the house.

I went upstairs, did the usual cat-sitting-related activities, watered the plants, and headed downstairs. Then, I knocked on Steve's door to let him know that I was leaving (so that he could lock the door behind me). And when he answered the door...

STEVE WAS NAKED.

Not just a little naked. But freshly-showered-with-a-towel-slung-over-his-shoulder naked. On purpose naked. Steve's junk was just a'wavin' in the breeze:

Me [oh my god, are you NAKED?]: Oh. Um. You're... Hi... uh, hi there! Sorry to bother you!

Steve: Oh don't worry, you're not bothering me.

Me [Jesus Christ, you ARE naked. What the FUCK?]: I just wanted to let you know that I'm... uh. I'm leaving! So I guess you can lock the door when you, um, when you get a minute.

Steve: Okay, thanks. Do you need me to let you in again tomorrow?

Me [What, so that I can see your unsightly testicles hanging there like the last chicken in the shop again tomorrow? I think not]: NO! No, no. I'll get a set of keys from someone else. Thanksforyourhelpbyenow.

Steve [waiving enthusiastically]: Bye!

Steve taped an apologetic letter to the front door the next day, which I appreciated. But the official explanation was that I 'caught him off guard'. Uh... yeah. What the fuck, Steve? Ever heard of using the little known phrase 'just a second'?

Surprisingly, the top response to this story has been 'Was he cute? Is he single?' But you know what, Internet? I'm pretty sure The Dude is not someone who greets strangers at the door in his alltogethers.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

How Could You Just Leave Me Standing Alone in a World That's So Cold?

When I was a kid, roped into attending church services every Sunday morning and Wednesday night to hear sermons about sin and redemption and forgiveness, I never really understood why everyone got so jazzed up about Judas. Okay, yeah, he sold his buddy Jesus up the river. And that's not cool. But he wasn't the one who drove in the nails. What about the dudes with the hammers? Shouldn't we be focusing all of our wrath on those guys?

But now I know: betrayal changes everything.

I saw my ex-husband today for the first time in five years. If you told my 23-year-old self about the conversation we had - less than a minute of pleasantries between strangers - she would have used words like 'not us' and 'never' and 'impossible'. And yet there we stood, completely unknown to each other now, despite our promises to love and honour and cherish for a lifetime.

The events that transpired, the things that were said and done to bring us to today's strange and remote exchange can never be accurately described. But betrayal was the root of it.

The realization that you've been sold up the river by the person who's supposed to have your back is a transformative moment. It changes you, it brings you to your knees, it lays you bare. What you chose to do from that moment on, though - and what you chose to do every day after that - well, that is what defines you as the new person you have now become. Will you become smaller and meaner until you can taste the bitterness of betrayal in every conversation you have with every person you meet? Or will you conquer the world with your eyes wide open to the complexity of human nature and your Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold made resilient by virtues of the fires of adversity?

Internet, I think you gotta go with the latter. Am I wrong?

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Instant Messaging: An Open Letter

Dear Horatio T. Millionaire-

First of all, nobody believes you're really a millionaire. I would suggest you try a more standard internet dating lie. Here are a few ideas:
  • I'm 6'2" (actual height: 5'8")
  • I work out every day (actual work-out schedule: three times per year)
  • Here is a recent photo (photo circa 1993)
  • I'm an actor (actual occupation: waiter)
  • I love all kinds of food (will only eat meat and potatoes. If they are not touching each other on the plate. Sauce of any kind will be met with shrieks of horror. Salt is the only 'spice' that is acceptable. Vegetables? Ugh. You're not one of those VEGANS are you??)
  • I'm an actor (actual occupation: lawyer)
  • I have a great sense of humour (thinks puns are hilarious)
Second: given that you seem unable to converse about anything other than the possibility of my participating in a threesome with you and a yet-to-be-named third party, I would NOT like to continue the conversation with you via MSN Messenger. And no, I don't feel like I'm living in the 'dark-ages' by not having an MSN account. It's 2010. Does ANYONE still use MSN? Good luck with the threesome fantasy, though. I'm sure that'll totally work out for you any day now!

Also: you should think about cutting back on the porn. Bow chicca bow-bow BOOOOOW.

Love,
ProngTwo

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

The House Guests

Not much progress on ProngTwo this week, Internet. But for good reason! First, Hurratio XVII died. Which was obviously very tragic.

And then I had house guests.

They were the kind of house guests that happen to you. You know what I mean. The ones who call up and say "hey, great news! We're coming to visit you!" and you're all "wait... what? Who is this again?" But then you're too much of a pussy to just tell them that they're not really invited.

Let me start by saying that no matter how uninvited or intolerable the guest, I am a staunch defender of the Art of Hosting: guests must be made to feel welcome and comfortable at any cost. But I have paid dearly for this conviction. Oh yes, I HAVE PAID.

I thought it would be sort of tolerably lame. But OH GOD. It was one of the worst, longest, most relentlessly irritating weekends of my entire life. It is a miracle of epic proportions that I did not murder anyone or just throw myself in front of the subway.

It wasn't bad enough that they insisted that I accompany them to every single tourist-infested 'attraction' in the area (we went to the ROM and the CN Tower and the Science Centre AND the zoo!) For those of you who don't know me, I'm really more of a lounging-around-at-home-in-my-scanties type of weekender. Add a couple of clowns to the ROM/CN Tower/Science Centre/Zoo scenario, and you have a classic ProngTwo nightmare.

It wasn't bad enough that they commandeered my lone bedroom (with fan) so that I was forced to sleep, in the stifling heat, on the couch. And by 'sleep on the couch', I mean that I did not sleep for the entire duration of their four-day visit.

It wasn't enough that they are jointly allergic/averse to almost every ingredient on the planet, making it virtually impossible to cook a meal that everyone would 'safely' agree to consume. My teeth were ground down to tiny stumps while I attempted to buy groceries and prepare individually agreeable allergen-free home-cooked meals three times per day in between all the sight-seeing.

It wasn't enough that the 10-year-old daughter, while insisting that we visit each and every landmark in the city, ceaselessly complained that her legs were sore, she was too hot, the air smelled bad, the subway was too crowded, she was hungry, she was thirsty, she wanted her picture taken, she didn't want her picture taken, she didn't like the meals that were prepared for her, homeless people were weird, the animals at the zoo weren't moving around enough, the useless crap that had just been purchased for her wasn't as amusing as it should be, etc, etc.

Oh no! Sunday morning, just as I had finally drifted off to sleep at around 5:30 am, The Mom clomped into the living room, sat down on the couch next to my head and shuffled around until I was forced to 'wake up'. Then, she proceeded to regale me with the details of her childhood abuse and consequent therapy. For FOUR HOURS. There was no escape. Believe me I tried. I would've just burned the apartment down, but I couldn't get 30 seconds away from her to find the damn matches:

The Mom: I mean, I've been really trying to work through my issues with my Dad. But...

Me: Wow! Will you look at the time! Maybe we should wake up The Daughter and get this show on the road!


The Mom: Oh, let's just let her sleep. She's pretty tried after the CN Tower and the museum yesterday. She should rest up for the zoo and the science centre today. We really do want to see everything! So anyway, then my therapist brought up the idea of doing a victim statement...


Me: ...


I literally skipped out of Pearson Airport on Monday morning. If I'd had bunches of flowers, I'd have flung the petals hither and yon with festive flare.

That being said, a House Guest Disaster Relief Program has been implemented in the form of music-playing, laundry, sleeping (IN MY OWN BED) and assorted bouts of non-tourist-trap-related shenanigans. Regular ProngTwo operations will be back in effect in short order.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Hurratio XVII

Hurratio XVII is probably dead. I say this because we had a fabulous first date, complete with excellent witty banter, a captivating and sincere discussion about our respective careers/passions, and a decent amount of hockey-related trash talking. I'm pretty sure even the waitress wanted us to have a second date - that's how awesome date number one was. Consequently, this is how we ended the evening:

HXVII: So listen, I had a really great time. Can we do this again sometime?

Me: Me too - I'd love to meet up again soon!

HXVII: What's your schedule looking like next week?

Me: I have house guests arriving on Thursday, but sometime before that would be great!

HXVII: So... should I call you?

Me: Definitely! You've got my number, right?

HXVII: [getting out his cell phone]: Let me just make sure I've got it... it's 416-xxx-xxxx, right?

Me: Right.

HXVII: Okay, I've got your number! Talk to you soon?


Me: Talk to you soon.

And... NOTHING. Not a call, not a text, not even one of those pathetic OKCupid winks. Just a long blank silence. Which means he died, right? Sudden coronary, traffic accident, lightening: something like that. I mean, I haven't been perusing the obituaries, because I don't want to invade Hurratio XVII's right to a private, stalker-free memorial service. But I'm thinking he's definitely bit it sometime in the last seven days. RIGHT?

Friday, July 2, 2010

Updates

The Lead Guitarist
Well. I finally decided on A's 'balls out' approach to the LG situation and just asked him if he wanted to meet up. The reply from LG was that he would definitely love to set something up (YES), but he will also be busy all summer (WHAT?). The Wing Woman asserts that LG is actually busy all summer and has a variety legit/complicated issues to contend with that will get in the way of his doing any summertime dating. I strongly suspect LG is employing Dating Guideline Number Three. Either way, a date with LG is probably not on the horizon. I have officially put the ball in LG's court and now I'm walking away. Perhaps he will bean me in the back of the head with the ball and take us all by surprise. But if I were you, I wouldn't wait for it.

Hobbits
Conversation my friend had with her autistic son after discussing The Hobbit Story with him:

Mom: So what did we learn from this story?

Son: If a hobbit comes to the door and I manage to catch him, don't lock him in my room.

The Interwebs
Did you know that going on eleven frillion blind dates with single guys who are mainly employed in the tech industry and consequently are a thousand times better at writing HTML than conversing with a real live woman can remove your Will to Live? Yeah. I took a little break from the interwebs dating over the past month. This freed up my time for some very important activities:
  1. Season Six of The Sopranos.
  2. Drinking multiple gin and tonics (with cucumber) in the back yard with impunity, having no place to drive to or be sober for in the foreseeable future.
  3. Sorting out of differences with The Cat: we had a very terrible fight over my repeated absences, wherein we both said and did things we regretted such as biting (him), name calling (me), and throwing large plastic cat toys (me again). My dating hiatus has allowed us to cement our reconciliation. And by reconciliation, I mean that the biting, name calling and throwing is back down to reasonable levels.
But now that The Sopranos have all been whacked (Don't stop! Bel---eiiiiving.....), the Hendrick's supply is depleted and The Cat is launching fewer after-work greetings in the manner of Cato (wherein I am forced into the surprise role of Inspector Clouseau), it is time to put ProngTwo back into action.

I'm meeting up with Hurratio XVII at Margret tonight, 8pm.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Why I Grew My Hair Out or My Accidental Lesbian Date

I spent most of 2009 and the first bit of 2010 living on a little island on the west coast of BC. It was a very relaxing laid back year and interesting in a culturally anthropological way. Which is to say: I am NOT A HIPPY. I eat meat, I shave my legs and armpits, patchouli oil makes me retch, I watch TV, I think 'organic' is another word for 'getting hosed by grocery store marketers', etc. But I did enjoy living amongst the hippies. And since they're categorically non-violent, they didn't beat me to death with their didgeridoos and djembes and whatnot when I would casually mention how much I loved spring lamb (i.e. not in the frolicking-on-the-hillside sense.) Hippies are so nice that way.

Anyway.

In addition to the hippies, a few Famous People live on this island. And I got to know a couple of them. And I even got to play some music with one particular Famous Person. Somehow this Famous Person got the idea that I was a lesbian. And you probably have surmised by now that I play for the non-lesbian team. Not that I have a problem with lesbians, some of my favourite people are lesbians, hey-ho lesbian power, they're here, they're queer get used to it, etc. But y'know... I'm not. Nevertheless. The word got out on Hippy Island that I was. And if you've ever lived in a small town you know that once the word gets out, it GETS OUT.

I found out about LesbianRumor2009 while having drinks with the Famous Person's Assistant and a Non-Lesbian friend:

Famous Person's Assistant [to the non-lesbian friend]: So... I though you were married to That Guy?

Non-Lesbian Friend: I am!

FPA: Oh... so then you three are all together, ProngTwo lives with you? [This is not an unusual arrangement on Hippy Island]

NLF: Yeah, ProngTwo lives with us!

Me: Um. Wait. I don't LIVE with them. I just... uh.... I'm the roommate. That's it.

FPA: Oooooh. But you're gay, right?

Me: What? No. Not that I have a problem with lesbians, some of my favourite people are lesbians, hey-ho lesbian power, they're here, they're queer get used to it, etc.

FPA: Oh. Famous Person thought you were. Sorry about that. It must be the short hair.

Me: Yeah, I should probably let it grow out a bit...

FPA: ...

NLF: ...

Me: ...

So problem solved, right? FPA tells Famous Person, Famous Person gets the word out, LesbianRumour2009 is reversed? Yeah... not so much. A few months later I made a new friend. She seemed awesome. She gave me a call and asked if I wanted to meet for a drink, and I set that shit up because the average person on Hippy Island is either 73 or lives in a yurt and hasn't bathed since 1994 and Hey! a freshly bathed friend my own age! I was very excited until:

New Friend: ... and then I came out when I was 18. How old were you when you came out?

Me: ... oh. I... um. I'm not actually in the technical sense... or ha ha ha... well, really in any sense, I'm not gay.

NF: But somebody told me that they heard from Famous Person that you were... YOU'RE NOT GAY?

Me: ...oh that. Yeah, he thought I was. But I'm not. Ha ha ha. Small towns, huh? Hoo BOY, the rumours! Nope, I'm not a lesbian, not that I have a problem with lesbians, some of my favourite people are lesbians, hey-ho lesbian power, you're here, you're queer get used to it!

NF: ...

Me: ... plus, y'know it's so great to hang out with a new friend!

NF: Yeah, I don't think I could handle being just friends with you. You're really not gay? That haircut...

Me: I KNOW, I'M GROWING IT OUT.

As it turns out, longer hair isn't that tricky to deal with.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

The Lead Guitarist

Well. ProngTwo has been suspended in a state of panic while I dither about The Lead Guitarist. It appears that I may have Fucked Things up Big Time by emailing him in a vague overly-cool way, leading him to believe that I am mostly interested in recruiting him as an audience member for my band. Shit shit shit.

My band is admittedly really awesome. But I'm not part of the band so I can Break Out and Get Signed and Make It. I just like hanging out and playing great tunes and putting on the occasional show for friends and family. My dreams to be a Famous Rock Star died a natural death in my early twenties. As they should. So the only reason that I even mentioned the band to the Lead Guitarist was so that I could establish that I am also Super Cool and HEY! we both play in bands for fun don'twehavesomuchincommon!? Which seemed like a great strategy. Until the email exchanges went like this:

Lead Guitarist: Hey! Great to see you! Your band sounds cool, too. Let me know if you have any gigs, and I'll come out and see you.

Me: Gigs gigs gigs, blah blah blah, I'm so cool that I'll pretend that I'm emailing you just because you asked about my band, blar-de-blar, dates for gigs that you will not be able to attend.

LG: I can't make it to any of those gigs. But let me know if you have any other shows coming up.

Me: Sure. I'll definitely let you know. Totally.

LG: Yeah, do that.

Me: ...

So now we have nothing more to say to each other on the gig front since there are definitely no more gigs to invite LG out to. Who knows what I should do next? Lots of people, as it turns out! Here's the advice I've accumulated so far:

T: Wait a week. Then invite him to a music-related event. Preferably one featuring your musician friends.

Colin: Don't mention the gigs any more. Just ask him out for a drink. Send the email on Wednesday.

Hot Chicca Co-worker: Don't email him back at all. Let him ask you out.

The Wing-Woman [a friend of LG's]:
We'll plan a BBQ and invite both of you. That way you'll have a chance to get to know each other without any pressure. [Glitch: the BBQ may never be scheduled given WW's insane schedule]

My Boss: You should just enjoy being single. Once you get married and have kids you'll NEVER BE HAPPY AGAIN.

The Cat: Watch me kick the shit out of this stuffed puppy!

My Mom: Just be yourself, Honey. Who wouldn't love you!?

A: Go Balls Out. I'm not sure what that means exactly, but perhaps a retraction of sorts. Something like... "At the risk of being too bold... since I won't be playing any shows in the near future... maybe we could get together anyway, you know, for a drink or something..."

Me: ACK!

So. Time to weigh in, people. No idea is too outrageous. I'll just be over here checking my email every 30 seconds in case LG decides to spontaneously send a message to That Insane Chick From Last Friday.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

And now for something completely different

This post has nothing to do with being single or dating or people sending me pictures of their penises. But I heard this story last week and it's so hilarious that I'm posting it. I'll get back to the dating nonsense next time.

The Hobbit: A True Story

My Younger Brother lives next door to a family whose son is autistic. This kid is 14, and they're just starting to leave him at home on his own once in a while. A couple of weeks ago, the parents left him at home and ran some errands. When they got home, the door they'd left unlocked (the one in the garage) was locked. Weird. So they rang the doorbell a few times, and finally the kid answered the door. When they asked him why he'd locked the door the kid explained:

"I caught a HOBBIT! He was trying to escape, so I had to lock all the doors."

So fine. This kid has a bit of an imagination. The parents half-listened to his lengthy Hobbit story while they unloaded the groceries from the car. After about an hour, the Dad went upstairs. And noticed that a bunch of furniture was pushed in front of the kid's bedroom door. A bookshelf, an armchair, a big potted plant, etc. So he called the kid upstairs and asked him what was going on. The kid's reply was :

"The Hobbit, Dad! He's a slippery bugger, but I've got him trapped in there."

At which point, the Dad heard muffled knocking sounds coming from the kid's bedroom. He moved all the furniture away and opened the door and... there stood a VERY IRATE Little Person holding a fist-full of Watchtower pamphlets and bible. Evidently, he was not at all amused to have been wrestled up the stairs (not once but TWICE) by a teenager shrieking the phrase "A HOBBIT. I HAVE CAUGHT A HOBBIT" at top volume. The guy didn't press charges, but my brother's neighbours are now re-thinking the whole leaving-the-kid-on-his-own plan. Bet the Jehovah's Witnesses skip that house from now on.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Breaking News: ProngTwo is NOT dead inside

So after about a frillion dates with guys I've wanted to flee from as fast as... um... shit. What's something that's really fast? A cheetah. Yeah. I wanted to flee from those guys like a cheetah. No wait. No wait. I'm a gazelle and THEY are the cheetahs. And I'm fleeing because instead of being all sleek and cool and awesome like cheetahs, they're actually more like jackals with their slobbery crooked teeth and weird anti-social idiosyncrasies...

You know what? Never mind that whole metaphor. Gazelles, cheetahs, jackals. Just scrap that whole bit. I'm nothing like a gazelle. I mean, who are we kidding? I don't even run for the bus; I just take my time and wait for the next one to show up.

ANYWAY. After going on all of those bad dates, I was beginning to wonder if the problem wasn't so much the guys as the possibility that the old Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has been kicked around a few too many times by the Douchebags of ProngTwo Yesteryear. Maybe these guys I've been hanging out with are totally awesome, but I just can't see that because I'm basically dead inside. Which, you know... not great for the overall success of Prong Two.

But then! This weekend I met The Lead Guitarist, a long-time friend of The Lawyer and The Lawyer's Wing-Woman. And you know what? The Lead Guitarist did not activate the cheetah/gazelle reflex. At all. In fact, I may have done that retarded little arm-pumping action when I saw that he emailed me on Sunday. Though probably not. I mean, what kind of loser does that stupid arm-pumping action anyway? Pfftt. (Probably) Not me. In all likelihood, I am the picture of email-receiving coolness. AS FAR AS YOU KNOW.

All this to say that regardless of how things progress with The Lead Guitarist, I'm very relieved to report that despite all the abuse the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has weathered, it's still functioning within normal parameters. Which may or may not include arm-pumping. Or whatever.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Set Up with Control Issues Man

I've enlisted my friends for help with Prong Two. Mostly, this involves listening to hours of my complaining about the idiocy of the Horatios, which I appreciate very much. But also, some of my friends have gone even further by agreeing to arrange Set Ups with likely candidates. Don't think I haven't noticed your darty eyes and sweat-stained arm-pits when I've asked you set me up, you poor hapless Friends of ProngTwo. I get it: Set Ups are a risky business for everyone involved - things can go awry and then The Friend can get blamed for the results.

THEREFORE: I hereby promise not to blame you if your acquaintance from the ping-pong club turns out to be one of those guys who talks to his Mom seventeen times per day and spends the majority of the date explaining how my personality is substandard in comparison to hers. (I do not promise to refrain from writing about Momma's Boy here, though. If I have to sit through that crap, I reserve the right to make pithy remarks about it.)

Which leads me to... Control Issues Man (CIM).

I met CIM through my very obliging friend The Baker (Retired). The Baker (Retired) golfs with CIM's best friend. Conversations ensued, email addresses were forwarded and BAM... CIM and I were exchanging emails. So far, so good. Until the night of the date.

Conversation One (via phone)

Me: So... what time do you want to meet?

CIM: I'd like to watch some of the hockey game, so maybe a little later on?


Me: Yeah, that sounds great. After the game?


CIM: Possibly. Call me after the end of the 2nd period and we can discuss.


Me: Oh. Okay. Um... talk to you later.


Conversation Two (via phone)
Me [at 2nd intermission]: So, what do you think? Should we meet up?


CIM: Okay, let's meet at
Gate 403 in my neighbourhood.

Me: Sure, sounds great.


CIM: How are you getting there?


Me: I think I'll drive.


CIM: Cab or transit is a better idea. I can tell you how to get there by transit.

Me: Oh, that's okay. I think I've got it.


CIM: So you're taking transit?

Me: Um... no. I think I'll drive.


CIM: Oh. Transit would be better. Or cab.


Me: ...okay... well. See you at 9:30ish?

CIM [sighing audibly]: No. How about you call me when you're close?


Me: uh... really? Okay.

Conversation Three (via phone)
Me [having parked my car]: So... I'm here.

CIM: Have you parked your car?


Me: ... yes.

CIM: Where did you park it?


Me [starting to get annoyed]: ... um.... on the street. On Roncesvalles.


CIM: Are you sure you're parked legally?


Me [in a forced cheerful tone]: YEP!

CIM: Did you check?


Me: Are you at the bar now? I'll just hang up and meet you!


Conversation Four (at the bar)
Me [gesturing with the straw from my gin and tonic]: ...blah blah blah, my job, blar de blar...


CIM: [reaches across the table, takes the straw OUT OF MY HANDS and places it on the table next to his drink] There. That's better.

Me: Oh. I'm sorry. Was I bothering you?

CIM: Yeah. I hate it when people fidget. Don't worry. It's not a big deal. I just won't let you have any more straws. And since you drove instead of taking transit LIKE I TOLD YOU TO, I guess you won't be having any more drinks anyway. So problem solved.

Me: ...

I hit CIM with GNTEP at the end of the date. He still suggested we get together again sometime soon and promised to call later that weekend. I was appropriately vague (progress!) Which is probably why he sent me an email later that week telling me that he thought we'd be better off as 'friends'. In accordance with Guideline Number Two, I didn't reply. Obviously.

So. Bring on the Set Ups, Bitches. Do you think you know The Dude? Or alternately, do you know someone who will make excellent fodder for a ProngTwo post? Shoot me a message and we'll hook it up, yo. No in-betweeners, though. It's the boring ones that kill me.


Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Instant Messaging: Best One Yet

Whoreratio: Are you into Big & Thick ? Contact me at xxx@bell.net so i can email you pics of the beast

Me: Oh good. You again.

W: feeling horny?

Me: Not even the slightest.

W: wots ur email? I can send u pix.

Me: Yes, I think you've mentioned that before. Tempting, but I'll pass. Are you having any luck at all with this ongoing big and thick idiocy?

W: 2 requests today

Me: Because I can't imagine you're having many takers.

W: hot babes infact

Me: Right... are you absolutely sure they were WOMEN?

W: [Whoreratio has logged out]

Monday, June 7, 2010

ProngTwo=NOT hideous

You may be tempted to think that the reason for my current state of singledom is that I am actually 6'9", 450 lbs, balding and have the face of a day-old peeled apple. But in fact: NOT SO. Just this weekend, I had confirmation from two distinct and completely reliable sources that I may even be edging on the side of Attractive.

Source One: Giant Donut-Eating Stranger* in front of CoffeeTime
While walking home from the pharmacy, GDES and I have the following conversation:

GDES [as I am walking past]: Excuse me! Can I ask you something?

Me [stopping]: Um... okay.

GDES: Why you SO BEAUTIFUL?

Me: uuuuuuuuhhhh....

GDES: Imma ask you something else!

Me: ....

GDES: How long you been married?

Me: I'm not... uh... I'm not married.

GDES: WHAT? How can YOU not be married?! How long you been with your boyfriend?

Me [walking away]: Okay, well. Right. I guess I should get going now.

GDES [shouting after me]: He a LUCKY MAN, BABY!

* both the stranger AND the donut were giant.

Source Two: The Interwebs
I receive the following email:

Dear ProngTwo:

We are very pleased to report that you are in the top half of OkCupid's most attractive users.

[Blar de blar, site stats, blah, blah, blah, algorithms, yada yada yada.]

You will now see more attractive people in your match results. [Some other stuff you don't care about.] The people we recommend will be more attractive. Also! You'll be shown to more attractive people in their match results.

[Additional drivel about how to login.] And, no, we didn't just send this email to everyone on OkCupid. Go ask an ugly friend and see.

Sincerely,

OKCupid

So you SEE, Internet? A stranger and an automated interwebs messaging system cannot be wrong. Clearly I'm not nearly as hideous as you imagined. So... mystery not solved. Although a wild guess could be that I'm still single because I'm impossibly picky and ruthlessly cynical. You can't really get an Xtreme Make-Over for that, can you? DAMMIT.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Leaving the Apartment

If you're going to launch into a project like Prong Two, you have to have more than one search strategy in order to find The Dude.

Okay. Well. You don't have to have more than one search strategy. You could sit at home night after night sifting through thousands of OKCupid profiles until your eyes start bleeding and you've lost all sense of reality and your social skills wane into oblivion until one day, instead of laughing when somebody says something funny, you croak out "LOL" like some kind of horrible android and reach out your withered index finger to click the phantom 'like' button that's floating in front of your bloodshot eyes.

But then, what if The Dude is the kind of person who would rather eat boiled tripe every night for a year than do online dating? I wouldn't blame him - I agree that there's a distinctive and unpleasant tripe-like flavour to online dating, though I sally forth anyhow. Oh-HO, I am the picture of bravery. But if The Dude is not quite as brave... NO JUDGMENT. And also, I will not find him on OKCupid.

So then: more than one strategy. That's what we're discussing here. Stop trying to distract me with your extraneous discussions about tripe, Internet. Jeez.

I have found that every single other strategy for meeting The Dude requires me LEAVING MY APARTMENT.

I can hear your gasps of dismay now: "Why would you ever want to leave your apartment, ProngTwo?" you cry. "It's stocked with snacks and WiFi and shelves full of good books and is not populated by lunatics and miscreants (except for the cat). Only a FOOL would venture out of a haven like yours." And you know, you people wouldn't be wrong. Except that The Dude is for sure, absolutely definitely NOT in my apartment. Yes, I have checked under the bed.

Generally speaking, I hate leaving my apartment. This is not to say that I'm a shy person: I am not shy. (You people who know me in Real Life can quit your goddamn sniggering right now.) I'm more... uh... I think the word we're all casting about for is "misanthropic". Which, I know: terrible, straight to hell, blah-blah-blah. But I'm working on being a lot less misanthropic in the interest of Prong Two. Recently, I have even been known to do shocking things like Attend Parties and Mingle with Strangers.

I know. I'm such an inspiration. You're welcome.

This is not to say I'll be planning an outing to Canada's Wonderland to mix with the unwashed masses anytime soon. Or visiting that horrible wasteland of weltschmerz known as Marineland (you may be surprised to find out that not everyone loves Marineland, you jingle-writing cretins). I have my limits.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Instant Messaging: This Stuff Just Writes Itself

Huratio [aged 19]: luv ur smile

Me: Thanks.


H: u seem awesome.


Me: Thanks again. Are you really 19?


H: Yep.


Me: So, you're aware that I'm 13 years older than you...?

H: No prob. I luv cougars.


Me: [logout]

Monday, May 31, 2010

Rules of Interwebs Dating, Part III

A few of you got a bit frothy about about GNTEP because you claim that Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase isn't very direct.* And possibly there are a few people out there who may think GNTEP borders on Playing Games. I hope that it goes without saying that Playing Games is NOT COOL. But I don't think the GNTEP qualifies as Playing Games. And this leads me to...

GUIDELINE NUMBER THREE
For the average intelligent Canadian dater, a little subtlety is perfectly acceptable.

We live in Canada. Or at least I live in Canada. (If you live in NYC, then I guess you can go ahead and ignore this next bit.) We are a polite people. We find overly direct conversations to be a bit like drinking Pepsi straight from the 2L plastic jug: uncouth, messy and bad for one's health.

Accordingly, I assert that it IS possible to let someone know that you're not into dating them without emotionally smacking them in the face with the details. But let me be clear: there is a small window in which Guideline Number Three is appropriate. Once you've been seeing someone for more than a few weeks, or you've had dinner and breakfast together consecutively (if you know what I mean), then the window CLOSES.

For example:

SCENARIO ONE: Are you breaking up with your live-in girlfriend of three years? Has her ongoing baby-talk and insistence that you refer to each other as 'My Wittle Wove Muffin' finally driven you to the brink of insanity? Yes? Well, you're going to have to have a few conversations with her about it before you can start looking for your own pleather-lined bachelor pad in Parkdale.

SCENARIO TWO: Are you just wrapping up a second date at Dufflet, wherein the zip of the luscious lemon tart was the only thing holding your attention as Heraysheeo spoke non-stop about his vintage album collection while asking NOT ONE QUESTION about you? Hit that boy with GNTEP and head on home, no conversation required.

Scenarios One and Two are NOT interchangeable, people. If you think you're ditching your Wittle Wove Muffin without having a couple of lengthy chats about the State of Things, then you're pretty-much a giant douchebag, and you deserve it when you find out all of your clothes have dyed baby pink and run through the office shredder before she packed them up.

By the same token, if your second date paramour rings you at 4:30 am to further discuss his fave albums from the late 80s (Spin Doctors' Pocket full of Kryptonite totally rocked my world in 1989!) on the same evening that he's been dealt Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase, you're entirely justified in glancing at your call-display and then rolling over to go back to sleep, return phone call not required.

* Those of you who know me In The Real World and would like to debate these issues are also welcome to do so in the comments section. But if you use My Real Name, your comments will be DELETED. Because... y'know... the anonymity of the Hurratios must be protected.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Rules of Interwebs Dating, Part II

I have this horrible end-of-date compulsion. (No, not that kind of compulsion, you sicko.) My compulsion is such that even when I plan to never see the person again, I continue to chirp out phrases like "yeah, we should DEFINITELY do this again!" and "okay, yeah, so give me a call and we'll hang out again soon!"

WHY DO I DO THIS?

I am not inherently the lying type. But I do like me some good manners. And I hate (HATE) hurting people's feelings. Which is goes a long way in explaining why I blurt out reassuring-but-completely-false maxims as the date is wrapping up. Of course, then I'm unjustifiably annoyed when Hyrastio rings me to see if I'd like to go to Canada's Wonderland with him next weekend (ugh... Canada's Wonderland. I would rather get myself soaking wet and shove my finger in a light socket).

Therefore, no more!

GUIDELINE NUMBER TWO
No lying to unsuitable matches:

But wait! This is not to say we need to be brutally honest. Or lengthy. If I've been on one or two dates with someone, is it really necessary to get into how he very much reminds me of my ex who, as it turns out, is gayer than Christmas? Should we be launching into hour-long soliloquies about how we could never kiss someone whose teeth jut out of their mouth like yellow weapons? Indeed, not.

So then, Internet, you may wonder what I say to these not-The-Dudes. Admittedly, it's been strikes and gutters on this issue. Sometimes I do the blurting before I can remember my allegiance to Guideline Number Two. But lately, I've been trying out the following Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase (GNTEP):

It was so nice to meet you. Have a great night/morning/afternoon. Take care!

And then... I WALK AWAY. Do you see how this phrase is both polite and final? Do you see how there's no glaring lie or encouragement to keep in touch?

I've noticed that this phrase works a lot better if I pay for my own drink/brunch/coffee - I try to insist if I'm pretty sure I'm going to use the GNTEP. Also, no fair using the GNTEP after having made out with the guy in the back of a cab for the entire length of Bloor Street. Mixed messages = unjustifiable annoyance on your part when he thinks he'll be invited into your apartment at the end of the cab ride/eating Ethiopian food with you next Saturday night/moving into your apartment in the Fall.

I know what you're thinking, Internet. You're thinking: That ProngTwo is a dating genius! The Guideline Number Two Exit Phrase could easily replace the Sermon on the Mount as the 21st Century's Creed for Dating. The Sermon on the Mount was about dating etiquette, right? Something about how fish, while a healthy choice, isn't always the best date food, and bread is all right as long as you don't eat the whole loaf? At any rate, HOORAY for the GNTEP!

Let's not get carried away, people. First of all, that's not what the Sermon on the Mount was about at all. Time to brush up on our Bible trivia, isn't it? Second, starting my own organized religion is Prong Five or maybe even Prong Six. I have a lot of prongs to get to before we get mired up in THAT business. Though I wouldn't refuse those of you who wanted to start tithing right away.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Stood Up

Internet, I've been stood up.

It's hard to tell why. The official explanation, offered 30 minutes before the date was slated to begin, was: "something came up". But because of the Dubai Man debacle, I don't give out my phone number any more. AND, since I still don't have an iPhone or Blackberry or Triage (Treo? Tree-o?), I didn't get the cancellation email until after I'd waited for over an hour at the cafe and finally headed home. LAME.

Luckily, I'm quite skilled at hanging out at cafes on my own. I'd brought a book my friend The Lawyer had loaned me - Gang Leader for a Day, by Sudhir Venkatesh - which was so fascinating that it took me 20 minutes to even realize that Hearratio P. Stand-Up was late. Also, we're in the midst of those glorious three days of Toronto Spring when it's no longer the shit-end of winter (wherein the heavens spit down angry sleet like a disgusted Polish Babcia presented with substandard pierogi) AND not yet the (oh-god-kill-me-now steam-bath sweat-drenched) scorching Toronto summer. A breezy sun-soaked hour on the patio at La Crema with arguably the world's greatest latte in hand and something good to read is not an hour misspent.

But back to the stand up. Even though I didn't have a horrible time waiting around for the no-show, 30 minutes does strike me as awfully late notice. Possibly even rude? I suppose I expected an explanation more involved than "something came up". Something more along the lines of "family emergency" or "car trouble" or "I'm terrified of meeting a total stranger for a cup of coffee." Am I being too anal? I realize that if I hadn't been so paranoid about the providing-my-phone number-to-potential-psychos issue, this guy could've just called me. But even then - EVEN THEN - I think I'd still be a little bit annoyed.

On the other hand, my Office Drone milk-bag complexion now has a tannish hue. Plus, I've made some excellent progress on my ongoing internal Crips vs. Bloods debate. I really do think I look better in the blue.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Getting the music thing

In addition to the Interwebs portion of Prong Two, I've also recruited my friends to do a little matchmaking. If they know an awesome single guy, they are duty-bound to introduce me to this guy. Of course, this prompts several questions about what kind of Dude I'm looking for.

Having been around the love circuit a few times, I've got some ideas about what works and what doesn't work for me in the romance arena. I do not subscribe to the "opposites attract" philosophy. I intend to spend lots of time doing awesome things and building a kick-ass life with The Dude. If he is, for example, deeply immersed in the world of ExTreme Mountain-Bike Paint-Ball Battles and plans to spend most of his free time charting battle plans and putting new shocks on his ride while I'm spending every spare moment feeding my music addiction ... well, that's not really in step with the whole Doing Awesome Things Together plan, is it?

Therefore, I usually tell my match-making friends that The Dude needs to be someone who Gets the Music Thing. But what the fuck does that mean, right? At first, even I didn't know. But I've been thinking about it recently, and I'm starting to figure it out:

Getting the music thing means that The Dude probably (probably) plays an instrument of some kind - not that he's making his own albums or gigging every Friday night, but the idea of spending an afternoon learning a few new chords on his guitar or digging out his old grade six book and bashing away at his piano isn't unheard of. Jam sessions or campfire singalongs or Friday nights in the basement with some guitars and some beer all sound like AWESOME ways to spend his free time. And if he doesn't play, that's okay too. As long as he 'gets it'.

Getting the music thing means that sometimes the music is on as background noise, but not always. Often I'm not just hearing the music, I'm LISTENING to the music. I know what tunes to turn on when I've just kicked ass at work; I know what'll make me feel better when I've had my heart broken; road trips are all about the playlists for me; there's a soundtrack to my life and it's something I've spent time thinking about. The Dude gets this.

As Ian McEwan said:

There are these rare moments when musicians together touch something sweeter than they've ever found before in rehearsals or performance, beyond the merely collaborative or technically proficient, when their expression becomes as easy and graceful as friendship or love. This is when they give us a glimpse of what we might be, of our best selves, and of an impossible world in which you give everything you have to others, but lose nothing of yourself. Out in the real world there exists detailed plans, visionary projects for peaceable realms, all conflicts resolved , happiness for everyone, for ever - mirages for which people are prepared to die and kill. Christ's kingdom on earth, the workers' paradise, the ideal Islamic state. But only in music, and only on rare occasions, does the curtain actually lift on this dream of community, and it's tantalizing conjured, before fading away with the last notes.

The Dude is the kind of person who will totally dig that quote.

So... easy peasy, right? There are bound to be several thousand guys kicking around who are awesome and single and 'get it', They're probably hiding out in some underground bachelor jam session wondering where the hell girls like me are hanging out. If you see them, tell them I say "hey".

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Rules of Interwebs Dating, Part I

You may think, Internet, that the world of online dating is the new Wild West. Lawlessness! Mavericks! PISTOLS AT DAWN. Or is that a British thing? Maybe I'm thinking of high-noon, which does seem more fair in terms of sun in people's eyes. ANYWAY. Screw this whole Wild West idiocy. There may not be an edition of Emily Post 2.0 (oh god, that's bad. I know, I know) but perhaps there should be? As I sally forth into the dark, nefarious world of the eDate, I'll see if I can dole out a few observations and maybe even some guidelines.

GUIDELINE NUMBER ONE
Would you say that to a person you'd just met in person? No? Then maybe don't say it on the internet:

One of the great things about online dating is that you've got free reign to contact anyone on the site. Presumably, you sign up for online dating so that you can meet new people; that's the point of being there. That reduces the Risk of Ego-Shattering Rejection by about a thousand. Before you even say 'hello', you know that this person isn't going to hit you with the I'm Married/I'm Gay/I'm actually from the planet Zoltan and don't date outside of my Zoltaniarwan Faith shtick.

However, it appears that without Risk of Ego-Shattering Rejection, a number of enthusiastic online daters feel free to blurt out anything that pops into their minds. Here are a few topics that may not be successful conversation starters:

  1. The size of your... *ahem*... "endowment."
  2. Starting the sentence with "my therapist says that..."
  3. Discussions involving preferences in the bedroom.
  4. Starting the sentence with "hey bitch."
  5. A lengthy description of how intuitive your pet lemur is.
  6. Compliments involving sexual organs.
  7. Starting the sentence with "so... how many kids do you want to have? I like Hurratiaetta for a girl and Hurratio Jr. for a boy!"
  8. ANYTHING about your ex.
  9. etc.
Of course, these could be perfectly fine topics of conversation with someone you're already dating. At some point, one may be very keen to discuss the intuitive powers of a love interest's pet lemur for hours on end, for example. But do we want to come off as a Crazy Lemur Wingnut right off the bat? Probably not.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Gym Guy

A lot of people who hear about Prong Two have suggestions as to where I can meet prospective dates. One of the more popular suggestions has been the gym. "There are LOADS of single guys at my gym," they boast! "You're way more likely to find someone who takes care of themselves and who's in great shape," they claim. I sort of don't care about The Dude being in great shape. But that other stuff is probably true.

And yet, I am not keen on the gym as the dating Mecca. Unless! Are we thinking of the gym as a litmus test? Because then maybe we're onto something. Any guy who sees me flailing around on the elliptical machine, purple-faced and sweaty in my ratty Canada! t-shirt and the boy's gym shorts I purchased at Zellers seven years ago and still thinks I'm eligible may be okay with me.

I did give the gym a go a few years ago. The results were not good. No wait. That's not entirely true. When asking myself if my ass looked good in various skirts, the answer was mostly a resounding "Daaaaaamn. YES." But as way of generating dating prospects: not successful. As it turns out, I'm not the sort of person who can pick up guys at the gym.

First of all, the only way I could convince myself to go to the gym was to go as soon as I woke up, before my brain could form enough compelling arguments to not go. And since my daily routine included a long journey on the Bus of Hellfire and Damnation to my office in scenic Industrial Mississauga, this meant that I was at the gym at dark o'clock each morning. This may be shocking news to you, internet, but there were not a lot of likely dating candidates at the gym at 6 am. In fact, most of the other patrons were of the geriatric variety. I'm not being unkind; without me in the mix to skew the results, we're looking at an average age of 72.

But then! Then Gym Guy started showing up. And soon, me, a dozen seniors and Gym Guy were there every morning at 6 am. It was miraculous! Frankly, Gym Guy was waaaaaay out of my league. Each morning he performed countless fancy maneuvers on the weight machines, muscles rippling and flexing effortlessly as he smiled dazzlingly at the other patrons. He helped the seniors adjust the machines and made pleasant conversation! He turned the t.v. channel to Newsworld, but first checked with other gym-goers to make sure it was okay! So polite; so blindingly handsome! I looked on, gasping and flailing from my post on the elliptical machine, smitten and mute. I thought about doing something drastic, like buying yoga pants at Lululemon. But who are we kidding? Are a pair of $90 yoga pants going to magically transform me into a glowing and fresh and graceful exercise ninja instead of sweaty and raspberry-hued klutz? No. No they are not.

I felt sure my relationship with Gym Guy would be limited permanently to the maniacal grins and muttered greetings I flung compulsively his way as he passed by on the way to the water fountain. But then something truly amazing happened: one morning Gym Guy made a sharp detour from the weight machines and climbed onto the elliptical machine NEXT TO MINE.

I decided to play things cool. I continued my flailing. I kept my eyes glued to Newsworld. And then, for reasons unknown even to me, I deviated from the 'playing it cool' plan. Or maybe I took the plan too far? Regardless, saying 'hi' to Gym Guy while casually taking a swig from my water bottle proved to be an insurmountable physical challenge:

Me: [picking up water bottle] Hi!

Gym Guy: Good morni..

Me: [sputtering the entire contents of water bottle down my shirt] *cough* *cough* *cough*

GG: Oh hey! Are you okay...?

Me: [trying desperately maintain footing on the elliptical machine] *cough* *cough* Sure! *cough* *cough* I'm o.. *cough* okay!

GG: Are you sure?

Me: [catching my toe on the pedal thingy] *cough* *cough* *cough*

GG: Woah there!

Me: [spectacular wipeout and subsequent face-plant on gym floor] *cough* *cough* *cough*

GG: [turning off his machine] Are you SURE you're okay?

Me: [leaping to my feet] I'm okay! I'm okay! Yeah, that bleeding should stop any time now. No big deal! Woah, is that the time? I should head out. Work! Gotta keep that ear to the grindstone! Or is it 'nose to the grindstone'? I can never remember. Ha ha ha! Anyway. Don't worry about me, I've got a trick knee, I always limp like this. Time to hit the salt mines! Have a great day!!!

GG: ....

Gym Guy steered clear of the elliptical machines after that. Shocker. And now, anyone who suggests I try meeting guys at the gym hears that story. There's always a brief pause followed by ..."The grocery store! That's supposed to be a great place to meet people!"

Monday, May 10, 2010

Instant Messaging: the down side of online dating

Hurrazzio [aged 48, from Tallahasse, FL]: Ur ass is hawt.*

*There are no photos of my ass or the vicinity of my ass in my profile.


Me : Really? That's the opening line you're going with? Ur ass is hawt?


H: Ya babe.


Me: Excellent. You're hitting it out of the park so far.


H: lol u like being spanked?


Me: We're already at the spanking portion of the chat? You're quick.

H: Thx. So do u?


Me: [logout]

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Starving Artists

You know those girls who are total goners for the painter in the garret who uses packets of stolen mustard and ketchup instead of those fancy oil-based paints he can't afford; the novelist so destitute he's using paper towel lifted from the Harvey's bathroom in lieu of real paper; the song-writer who lives in his guitar case under a bridge? It appears that I'm no longer one of those girls.

Am I a jerk for because the Starving Artist now makes me weak with hunger instead of weak in the knees? Probably. But my Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Hold has recently been usurped by my HEY-let's-be-practical brain, who insists that The Dude is someone who will be able to pay his half of the mortgage in the foreseeable future. Either that, or the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has finally grown weary of having the shit kicked out of it via the parade of inappropriate pairings it's been subjected to and has finally put its foot down. Okay, hearts don't have feet. Whatever. It's a metaphor, just go with it.

So okay, before everyone gets up on their high horses about economic elitism and Women Who Want a Free Ride, let me be clear about something: I'm not on the lookout for some über-rich guy who will fling me across the globe in his private jet, inside which we'll have money fights using pillow-sacks filled with one hundred dollar bills and snack on diamond encrusted crackers smeared with gold-plated caviar. For one thing, that scenario can hardly be good for one's digestion. For another thing, I like taking care of myself. You know that feeling you get when you pay your all your bills and still have some cash leftover to go hog-wild at the iTunes store, or you use your bonus to book a week on the beach with a perpetual margarita melting in your hand, or you slap down a down-payment for a condo - and you know that YOU are the hard-working bad-ass who made that all happen? I LOVE that feeling. I'm not looking for a fancier life or someone to shower me with riches beyond my wildest dreams. If I want more money, I'm pretty sure I can make it myself.

So then, what's the big problem with the Starving Artist, you ask? Excellent question, internet. Let's use Screenwriter Guy, a recent OKCupid match, as an example. This guy is great - funny, articulate, intelligent, ambitious, cute. We met for drinks at The Yellow Griffin, and I was completely charmed by Screenwriter Guy's sparkling personality. But as the evening progressed, he revealed that although he thinks of himself as a screenwriter, his prolific efforts have yet to produce any actual film footage. At 33 years old, screenwriting is his only game plan - he supports himself by working part-time at a video store and part-time at a coffee shop. Screenwriter Guy has been so intent on this goal that he has eschewed post-secondary education and steady employment; all of his energy and focus has been devoted to his creative outpourings. And you have to respect that kind of tenacity.

On the other hand, aren't there some pretty major compromises involved in teaming up with someone whose dream career, 15 years in the making, is still in its infancy? Isn't it okay to think about my own hopes for the future - the ones that involve kids and family and building a life with someone - and understand that unless Screenwriter Guy changes his goals, mine will probably be shelved until he gets "his big break"? Isn't it a good idea to choose someone whose plans for the future sort of line up with your own?

We went on a second date last night (I really do like this guy), and over our cashew chicken and meekrob at Young Thailand he told me that he's dated women who've wanted him to give up on his writing aspirations in exchange for a degree and a steady paycheque. Those relationships never lasted long. And who can blame him? While I'm still a complete idiot when it comes to relationships, I'm pretty sure you don't go in hoping the other person is going to change - and especially when the thing you want to change is a defining element in who that person is.

As great as he is, Screenwriter Guy and I both headed for home last night with the tacit understanding that a third date wasn't going to happen. Still, it was nice to hang out with a guy who wasn't addicted/terrified/dead inside/trying to lure me into a one-night-stand with promises of hotel-room tea. And when I see a shot of Screenwriter Guy accepting his Academy Award ten years from now, I'm totally bragging to my kids about how I went on a date with him once.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Hi, I'm Colin

My good friend Colin is also single. Sometimes we trade advice. For instance, Colin has advised me that no guy wants me to wear a turtleneck sweater on a first date. Also, maybe I shouldn't mention the cat until the third or fourth date. Or possibly, avoid mentioning the cat at all until I'm sure the guy is really, really into me. And then introduce the cat in small doses so that the guy doesn't flee in terror when confronted with Satan in Feline Form. Duly noted, Colin.

In exchange, I've been advising Colin that a little confidence goes a long way. Take Dubai Man for instance: sure, he was CRAZEE. But he still ended up with my number because he had the cojones to ask for it. Colin is awesome and non-crazy. And don't we all want more awesome non-crazy guys asking us out? YES. Yes, we do.

Colin: So, I just walk up to the girl and ask her for her number?

Me: Sure. Or ask her if you can buy her a coffee.

C: I can't do that!


Me: You can't? Why not?


C: What if she says 'no'?


Me: Um... then you go on with your day?

C: Oh. Huh. I see what you mean. Yeah, I like this idea! So what do I say?


Me: You say 'Hi, I'm Colin. I'd love to buy you a coffee sometime. Can I get your number?'

C: Yeah. Actually, that sounds GOOD.


Me: Okay, great! You wanna practice it? I'll be the girl.


C: Yeah! Okay.... Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, Miss. I was just wondering if...


Me: What? STOP. "'I'm sorry to bother you, Miss'? What are you, a butler? You sound like a weenie. 'Hi, I'm Colin. I'd love to buy you a coffee sometime. Can I get your number?' That's all you have to say.

C: Okay. Let me try again. "Hi, excuse me, how's it going? I'm wondering if I could get your number?"


Me: No, Dude. Don't water things down with the 'excuse me' stuff. 'Hi, I'm Colin' That's your opening. 'Hi, I'm Colin'.

C: Okay, okay. Let's see... Hi, can I interrupt you for a sec...

Me: DUDE! 'Hi, I'm Colin.'


C: Right! Okay! I can get this! Hi, I'm Colin and I'm sorry to... oh CRAP.

Me: ...

C: ...

Me: It's okay. I'll write it out for you and we'll practice again later.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Dubai Man

I've always thought of the Driver's Office as the great equalizer: rich or poor, young or old, you are forced to take a number and shuffle into the holding area for between two and thirty-seven hours before being informed that you've filled out the wrong form by a disgruntled government employee who will hit the 'next' button under his desk like it will activate a trap door, plummeting you to your death via an alligator-filled moat.

I met Dubai Man at the Driver's Office. It's hard to say what prompted me to think he was a normal human being. It could have been that my brain was over-cluttered by the sound of shrieking children, whose parents were too busy comparing tattoos to prevent them from clinging to the underneath of my chair like grubby howler monkeys. It could also have been that the sound of Everybody Loves Raymond reruns blasting from Horse-Laugh-Man's iPhone scrambled my senses.

At any rate, I now suspect that the Driver's Office holding area is populated entirely by miscreants and lunatics. The sane people have discovered some other way to renew their driver's licenses. I am (relatively) sane. Why hasn't anyone let me in on the secret way to avoid the crazies of the Driver's Office? You people suck.

Anyway.

Dubai man smiled winningly at me several times. I smiled back. We both shook our heads in disbelief at the howler-monkey/Horse-Laugh-Man situation. His clothes appeared to be clean. He was reading a novel. Comparatively normal.

My number was called, and after I'd presented the correct documents, a stone from the top of Everest and a vial of Christ's tears from the crucifixion, my picture was taken and I was given my new license. Time to get back to the office. Impressively, Dubai Man got up out of his seat, approached me, and ASKED IF HE COULD BUY ME A COFFEE.

Let me just say that it's not easy to approach a stranger and ask them out. It takes courage and confidence. I was immediately impressed. And also very late for work. As a result, Dubai Man asked for and received my cell number.*

Things started going a little south when he called me later that night and arranged to meet me for a drink the following evening:

Dubai Man: I'm staying at a hotel on College street. Why don't you meet me there?

Me: oh... you don't live in Toronto?

DM: No. I live in Dubai. I'm from Toronto, but haven't live here in some time.

M: You live in Dubai? Wow, um... are you planning to move back to Toronto, or...

DM: It's a very complicated situation. But I'll explain it to you when I see you tomorrow at my hotel.

M: Right... I was thinking we should meet at Kalendar - it's also on College and closer to my place. Would that work?

DM: Sure, see you there.

This is the point at which several small alarm bells began ringing in my tiny paranoid brain. I've found that the phrase "it's complicated" rarely signifies a positive situation. It's never "complicated" in the sense that someone's planning to give me a unicorn that craps money but is having trouble transporting the unicorn to my house, for instance. It's usually "complicated" in the sense that someone would like me to invest my life's savings in their scheme to genetically modify ponies into unicorns that crap money. "It's complicated": not my fave.

At Kalendar, Dubai Man was not keen to get into the complicated nature of his residence in Dubai. "Toronto people are WAY too interested in what they do for a living!" he claimed. "We live in a time of global integration - where we live is insignificant!" he cried. Well, sure. That's often true. But what's the big mystery, Dubai Man? Evidently, that was none of my business.

I was already pretty fed up with this guy when the conversation took a sharp turn:

DM: Enough about all of that. I am very much looking forward to spending the night with you.

Me: Uh... Ha Ha.... well. Not the WHOLE night. Ha Ha.

DM: Oh yes. I think it will be very beautiful.

Me: Uh... no. I don't think so.

DM: [reaching across to take my hand] Oh yes. I think we will have a very beautiful time together.

Me: [pulling my hand away] What? NO! Dude, that's totally not going to happen.

DM: But why? But you are so beautiful and you're not like other women in Toronto. I can see that you are spontaneous and open. You're not cold like the other women in Toronto. I know I'm right. I can tell from your smile.

Me: Actually, in this case I think you can assume I'm just like every other woman you've met in Toronto. So anyway... where did you grow up?

DM: You're afraid to spend the night with me because I'm black. Ha ha ha! You little white girls are always so scared. Tell me: have you been in a room alone with a black man before?

Me: Are you kidding me? Because you're black? Look, I'm not going to sleep with you tonight, and that has nothing to do with your race. This is totally insulting.

DM: Who? Who is this black man you have been with? YOU TELL ME.

Me: [placing some cash on the table and getting up] All right. That's enough of that. Time for me to go.

What transpired next was an amusing little scene amid the Friday night College Street throngs wherein I hailed a cab while Dubai Man trailed after me shouting:

"Don't do this to me! You can't do this to me!! Just come to my hotel and I will make you tea. TEA. Please. PLEASE. I will explain everything to you when we go to my hotel. We will have tea. You cannot do this!"


There was a brief struggle as the cab pulled up, when Dubai Man desperately latched onto my wrist and tried to prevent me from leaving. But within moments, the cab was speeding away and I was parting with about $25 more than my budgeted transit fare to get home.

I had three calls from Dubai Man on the way home. The cab driver, in addition to offering to call the police, advised me to ignore the calls. Eventually the guy would get the message and leave me alone. This advice proved to be true, though it took Dubai Man twenty-six calls in five days before he finally gave up.

So in conclusion, the Driver's Office is probably not the best place to meet prospective dates. TAKE HEED.

* A serious aside about dating safety: I have made it a policy to keep the info exchange to a minimum when I first meet somebody. Mostly, I've found that withholding my last name or giving out an anonymous email address is overkill. There are a LOT of trustworthy people out there. But as the Dubai Man story proves, sometimes being cautious can save you a lot of trouble later on. Safety, Single Girls: it's not rude, it's just smart.