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.

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.

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.

Naked Steve: THE NOTE

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.

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?

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