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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

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.

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.

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]