Advice from Men: do they make sense after all?

I was recently given some advice from a really good friend.

Moe has known me since I was a quiet, long legged, wobbly kneed, braid sporting 8 year old. Having been my neighbour pretty much my entire life it is safe to say that he knows me relatively well. His sister, Mena, was one of my first best friends. Let me qualify that statement by saying that I've enjoyed a steady, revolving door style flow of best friends in my lifetime. From Mena to Zahra to Bebe to Sumi to Lamb (who will get a blog of her own as soon as I talk myself out of ordering a hit out on her). I do really well with "friends" but the death nail is giving somebody the title of "best friend". I'm learning to get rid of this bad teenage, friendship bracelet BFF crap.

Returning to the point of this blog, I spent a very early morning talking to Moe about the state of my love life. There's a bit of history between us since I wore out a crush on him when I was in high school. His yearbook picture could have legitimately called the cops on me for stalking. I was 16 and he was 20, and all I knew was that he was older, vehically mobile, and didn't piss me off. It made for a good combo in my mind. Well, that lasted through the 11th grade and then I was happy to relegate his status back to my friends brother. But, surprisingly, as fate and randomness would have it, he actually become one of my closest friends. I think all that maneuvering to be around him and strategically finding ways to spend time with him during the crush phase actually showed the both of us that we had a lot in common. Things worked out for the best. He would've been a great boyfriend for exactly 36 hours, but instead I got a great friend for 7 years....and counting.

Back to the advice he gave me. Now, you should understand that Moe isn't exactly the most emotional person in the world. In fact, most girls find him too laid back, cynical, uninterested, and possibly cold. The truth is, he's a no bullshit guy. No mushy lovey dovey crap. He doesn't hold your hand. He's the kind of person that gives you the "what the fuck is wrong with you?" speech and then tells you all the reasons why you shouldn't give a shit. He believes there is no need to get worked up about things, especially relationships. He's a strictly no frou frou kind of person. He tells me, after hearing a shit load of blah, blah, blah about Noel, that I only have one course of action. This may be paraphrased, but it's sure to hit the mark:

"What you need to do is build him up. Gas him up really well. You know, tell him he's good looking, and smart, and nice, and all that shit. Then, step on him like an ant. Squash his ass. He'll know who's boss after that."

Interesting. It seems the complete opposite of my current strategy of "be myself" and "don't play games", but perhaps that stuff is tired, mundane, and simply old fashioned. Truth be told, it hasn't exactly worked to my benefit with all the other losers I've had "things" with. Perhaps, a change of strategy is called for. Perhaps, being a bitch is the way to go. Hmmm, and here I thought being a nice girl was the way to get a nice guy. Fuck that. I'm squishing ants, and they won't see it coming! Thanks, Moe, for putting things into a new perspective...a mercenary perspective, but a new one nonetheless.

On Entering the Twilight Zone

On entering the twilight zone. Better known as dating. I'm pretty sure The Twilight Zone was actually a TV series, but having never watched it I always feel guilty about using the cliche to describe the topsy-turvy confused atmosphere of my life. So, it is with guilt that I can declare that my dating life has entered the twilight zone. Maybe I'm being melodramatic, but I'd like to convey that the general status of well, my status, is befuddling, baffling, and perplexing. There aren't nearly enough bad adjectives to describe this...twilightus zonus. It's sort of like staring at a transvestite convinced that he/she isn't a transvestite, but wondering why their adams apple is bobbing up and down to the beat of The Simpson's theme song. Baffling.

Right. The greatest benefit of being single is simple: you only have yourself to worry about. When you start including anybody, let alone somebody of the male persuasion (non-transvestite), in your though process you're guaranteed sheer insanity. Yep. Think you're normal now? Ha! You'll be lucky to be functioning after he's invaded class time, work time, sleep time, day dream time, eating time, fucking around time, and most importantly, blank time! Blank time is for emptiness, for a big, fat helping of nothingness. It's when he invades that time that I am particularly annoyed. I don't want to be forced to think during designated non-thinking time. A girl's allowed to go blank sometimes, you know. Fuck.

Whereas the last 5 months were filled with the quiet sounds of me, myself and I, this last month has been a disturbingly giddy, but strange duet. Twosome, anybody? Gross! I want just me back. Screw Noel! He's not allowed to invade and make my time our time. Who does he think he is? Man, you give men an inch and they take over your mind.

I've now officially entered the area of twilightus zonus where everything I do somehow relates back to something that Noel is doing. Am I on MSN, strategically, when I know he's home from work? Of course not! Independent, modern chicks of 2008 do not schedule their MSN time around a man. As if! Convincing? I didn't think so. Do I spend an irrational amount of time talking to him when I know I have more important, and pressing things to deal with, such as, hmm, my education? Of course not! I'm acquiring the debt of a small African nation to study in London and I would never compromise that for a man. Did that work? I thought not. As is very obvious I've become an irrational feminine pool of mushy feelings and as such, am sacrificing parts of myself for...a man!? I'm a misogynists dream girl! So willing to give and give, think and think, while I'm not convinced he is doing the same. Hmm.....I smell a double standard. I also smell that I've initiated it.

My escape plan for the twilightus zonus? Well, it's not squeezing through the washroom window in the middle of dinner. It's using thinking to my advantage. No, I will not be thinking about him, instead I will be thinking about not thinking about him....well, at least not as often. I need to recapture my sanity from the dirty grips of yet another man I am just testing out. See, if he works out, it'll be because he wanted it to, not because I obsessed and worked to be there. This time, he'll work to be there, and I'll be sitting back on my polka-dot comforter sipping on chilled mango juice and reading Cosmo as it tells me how to get my man. Shows what they know! I don't have to get him, he'll be coming to me. And if he doesn't, well, I still have a few more hours in the twilight zone to stir up some shit. Ruckus, the greatest liberator. Well, only second to fucking shit up.

What good is a beat if the music is weak?

Hey, what good is a beat if the music is weak?

Check out a little somethin' somethin' from a brotha who knows his women and his soul....
Raheem DeVaughn- Woman

And a ballad from a soulful blues singer and her band......
Grace Potter and The Nocturnals- Apologies

Listening to good music is a pleasure. Sometimes, if you're really lucky, you find the kind of music that makes you feel something, a goosebump or two. It's not worth the effort to wade through the musical crap of the Billboard 200. Luckily, you don't have to resort to the commercial tradition of music charts if you have the beauty of the Internet. I'm a big proponent of using MySpace for finding and following new talent. However, as a person-to-person site MySpace is total shit and full of creepy weirdos (umm, I'm a Facebook person, or as A likes to call it, Stalkbook). Also, amazon.com has a really good customer forum where people put up lists with such topics as "Best Soul Music of the 70s" or "The Best Voices of Neo-Soul" or "Great Women with Guitars". It introduces you to music you never would have found on your own, and you'll end up wondering how you ever lived your life without knowing these underground, under appreciated artists. If you're really lucky you will stumble upon some great, monumental, life altering work. The likes of Esthero, Damien Rice, Animal Liberation Orchestra, Amel Larrieux, Amos Lee, Derek Trucks Band, City & Colour, Goapele, Corneille, Jamie Lidell, The Sunshine Underground, and Nizlopi. I recommend these artists because they are just that, artists. They make music their craft. You can start with the above two tunes....one neo-soul, the other bluesy rock, and I'm sure, within minutes, you'll be feelin' alright....

I'm crushing hard, and I think I like it....

So....I met a boy. Insert high-pitched Japanese schoolgirl giggling. It's pretty pathetic, but I've taken to giggling like some reject transplant from The Valley and I'm about to kick my own ass. I didn't just meet Noel, but I've put off writing a blog about him until I got passed the stage of feeling him out and got to the stage where I wanted him to feel me up. Juvenile, basic, but true. Problem is he lives in Toronto and I'm in London for the next 5 months before I return home. Now, logical and rational girl that I am, I was determined to not get involved. At the very least I planned to slow things down until I got back to Toronto, but that overwhelming "like" feeling sucker punched me and I'm now giggling and mooning through my day. Ugh, its a well known fact I hate overly happy people, and if I smile one more time I'm likely to kill myself out of sheer disgust. I fulfill my teeth showing quota for the day in less than an hour.

His blog alias is Noel, he's 24, an engineer working for a water systems management firm, and a member of Engineers Without Borders. He's totally cute, super nerdy, endearingly awkward and makes me smile with his little speech quirks (he says "right" before he starts any sentence, and he can't ever answer with one "No" or "Yes", its always like "No, no, no...." or "Yes, yes...."). His life is quiet, he calls it boring, but he's not dull, more mellow, calm, and introverted. That's where we differ, of course. I'm a total extrovert, loud, opinionated, out going....and my life is never boring. Still, we manage to have the most random things in common (Napoleon Dynamite, Martin, and the ol' school American Gladiators, 90s style), know the same obscure things things (Garth Brooks alter ego Chris Gaines...umm, don't ask), and have the same answers to questions (quintessential movie of the 90s? Dangerous Minds....thank you Coolio and Michelle Pfeiffer!). He laughs at my jokes, and that's always a plus. He thinks I'm cute, that's a double plus. He calls me a one-woman-show because I'm always talking, but its only because he listens so well. OH, and he apologizes! The last time I heard a man say sorry was months ago, from a cafeteria worker who put too much BBQ sauce on my chicken wings. I'm crushing hard, and I think I like it.

If you know me, you know I have a dating theory. I believe I get one great "like" a year. Last year, Rems, the asshole, lasted through to August before showing the true dickhead inside of him (but I'm not angry, I swear) and that was it for 2007. I had to wait until 2008 to meet a new guy, to get a new great like for the year. What I didn't expect was that it would come so early. This can only go two ways. Either Noel fucks up soon and forces me to spend the next 11 months alone, or he actually, unlike all the others, comes through and I get one hell of a good year. 2008....possibly redeeming itself right before my eyes. Let's all pray for the latter. And if you don't believe in God, just hope really, really, really hard in the direction of the sky....He'll get your point.

Jay just got back from a trip to Central America and came back with a catch phrase stolen from the local banditos of the Costa Rican coastline....Pura Vida. Pure Life. Apparently, so relaxed they are, that anything and everything gets the laid back, been-smokin'-some-herb response of Pura Vida. So, in the spirit of free trade, I too will adopt this saying....Pura Vida, Noel. Fuck shit up and I'm getting my newly adopted Costa Rican amigos to fuck your shit up! Hasta La Vista!

All the Drama with Half the Money

I've decided that in my old age I've garnered a strategic high horse position that perhaps does not equate well with my new soap box tendencies, or better known as my blogging. It's a shitty Monday, and I'm fucked in a not so good way as I find myself in part 3 of my flu trilogy (let's hope I don't pull a Rocky and go beyond this). Illness has a way of making me reflective, or is that contemplative, well, either way Advil has some serious neuro-stimulating capabilities and I've seen the last couple of years of my life in a well documented, our-Florida-trip-with-grandma style slide show in vivid technicolor. And I kinda wish I had some herb so I could forget it all. Ah, unfortunately my very active mind is not only working on the flashback of my days past, but is somehow trying to string together academic sounding sentences about how well I know....hmm, what was that again? shit...oh yeah, participatory development. Something to do with participating in stuff, you know what I mean, its all a blur really and I'm feeling that may be where I'm going wrong. Un-blur mind, un-blur.

So these flashbacks, akin to a little wavy fade out with Wayne's World sound affects, is sort of messing with my system. It seems like because I have a blog I can now vent about other people in ways I never could before, umm if we don't count my mind, screaming into my pillow, or routine visits to my Dr. Phil catchy Texan phrases handbook ("you need to listen to your body because your body is listening to you"...yeah, still trying to figure that one out). I spent last night in a bar full of rowdy, grown but still frat boys at heart, New England Patriots fans finally understanding how the American economy is entering a recession (it's the men, they're like animals, but in human form, and they really like their chicken wings!). That's besides the point, though, because the real meat of the story is the general drama permeating my little corner of the sports bar. It seems that although I have great friends none are apparently too old for drama, and in our collective old age (mid 20s and beyond) the drama just gets juicier and more destructive (with a tiny hint of dysfunction).

I was watching Gossip Girl earlier, but please don't judge me for that. It is clearly the most vapid, and obscenely ridiculous show I have seen since the likes of Beverly Hills 90210 and its Siamese twin (with better cat fights) Melrose Place. The fashion is better, but the melodrama the same. Topics of the day? Gossip and drama. In what form? Obligatory pregnancy scares, the always fascinating eating disorder, lots of unruly sex with multiple partners (STD's don't dare enter the Upper East Side), drinking problems, drug problems, and the must-have great venture to the other side of the tracks to find "the one" while simultaneously showing how "money doesn't matter". Right. So as I bypass writing my paper for my fascination of this project in modern teen life, I find myself mocking the pathetic drama that unfolds in each episode. Until my Advil kicks in and I say to myself...is the drama of my life that much different? As absolutely boring as my life is, my friends tend to add to it with their constant source of TV style antics. Granted we don't go to prep schools or wear couture, but we somehow manage, in our jeans and sneakers, to do just as many fucked up things.

Pregnancy scare anybody? Yeah, quite a few actually. Best friends one day and not the next? Sure, I'll take a couple. Was a boy the culprit? Ah, I would have to say more than once. Drugs? Sure! Alcoholism? Even better! Substance abuse is so the new black. Real life drama is like a painstakingly clear TV screen. This high horse I'm on may have made it difficult to see it very well, but see it I did. And thanks to overpriced, over the counter drugs I even made it a point to think about it as well. The conclusion? Fuck Gossip Girl. Get a slide show of my life and I'll show you ratings. Upper East Side....ha! It doesn't take money to get good drama.

30 seconds into a Boyz II Men song.....

If I've cried once, I've cried a million times for moments like these. Something tells me that those emotions that hide well behind smiles, that are invisible behind laughter are just laying dormant, waiting for that Boyz II Men song. If I had more creativity I'd come up with less cliche music to make me feel those runaway feelings. If only O hadn't been who he was, if R was more discerning, if Jay had more sense, if Rems had a heart, if Moe had opened his eyes, maybe....just maybe, moments like these would be few and far in between. Unfortunately, banking on the actions of others makes it nearly impossible for you to ever get what you want. And so, the result, beyond the years of acceptance and faked nonchalance, is that you're cornered very well by a moody tune or two and feel what you almost believed was unfeelable anymore. Who said music was nothing more than a few words strung together over a predictable melody? Seems to me those melodies do more for my sense of emotion than my everyday life. A cascade of memories, of what-ifs, of regret and each poignant in the almost holy reverence that is one great, cliche musical number.......

Gotta Get My Grass On

Fruits....the fruit of life? Vegetables....the juice of existence? Hmmm, I wonder. As a recent convert to vegetarianism I have to renew my relationship with the food group "fruits and vegetables" and somehow bury my long standing relationship with the "meat and poultry" group. Needless to say it's been a hard sell to my stomach.

This all started with my return to London last week. I got back on the 10th of January and decided to mark it with a brand new me. A vegetarian me. Considering my issues with the new year it was not a resolution, just an expression of an evolving me. A new eating habit to match a new me to match my prodigal return to London. The idea of becoming a vegetarian was fueled by my inability to make the right food choices. Although I am by no means a big eater, usually satisfied with 1 or 2 meals a day, whenever I decide that I should eat it's always something horribly bad for me (McDonald's is the usual go-to). In becoming a vegetarian not only would McDonald's no longer be an option, but I would have to stop and think about every food purchase I make and certainly everything I put into my mouth. It's actually worked. I've eaten more healthy in the last week than I have in the last year.

I've always had dreams of returning home to ooohs and aaahs, to "my God, have you lost weight?", or "you look so different!", and the kicker, "wow, you look so good!". Honestly, I can be as vain as the next girl even if I'm not like that on a regular basis. However, my weight, as fluctuating as it is, has been my Achilles heel, my arch nemesis, my "thing" since I was a teenager. The other side of puberty was a rough time for me, and I feel as if it's now or never, at least in a dietary sense.

It hasn't been so bad. Granted the food choices have dwindled, and I'm taking a very long time deciding what I want to eat in the Starbucks line or at Pret or at Cafe Nero. I assume it's all worth it for the healthy me, and for the fit me and definitely for a more slender me. My fridge is bursting with carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, vegetable stir fry, fat free mozzarella and my pantry with bran cereal (no sugar! I didn't know this stuff existed), bananas, peaches, apricots. I'm a walking poster child for healthy eating now. Well, except for the occasional lapse, but it is early days yet! I'd really like to surprise the people in my Toronto world, I rarely get a chance to do so.

So if I appear grumpy, or maybe snarl a time or two, take pity on me. My stomach is still adjusting, my sugar levels returning to normal, my fat cells being deprived, and my internal balance finally finding its balance. One thing has become apparent to me. As a vegetarian I am now eating the things that real food eats. I'm fighting that soon-to-be-burger-meat cow for my little spot of shaded grass. Gotta get my grass on!

The Bespectacled Mafia and Survival of the Most Colorful

I sit in my classes, surrounded by the British voices of other students that drone on and on about things that make them feel smarter than me, and silently mock them for their sheer naivete in believing this is their defining moment in life. Grad school. As if this is any more important than undergrad, or high school, as if this is the moment where they shine to the bitter disappointment of all the bullies they had while they barely made it through adolescence. And I, hoping to God that grad school isn't the highlight of my life, spend the entire lecture wondering how I ended up in the same classroom as these robots.

In a classroom littered with the minds of tomorrow (what a frightening thought), the men voice their opinions wholeheartedly, the older women (the I'm-not-too-old-for-school ones) find a moment or two to share their worldly experience (usually about the birthing process), and me and M throw in an occasional original thought, cynical as it is, about what it is that we're discussing that day. That's it. The other "girls" in our class scribble down notes as if every worded thought of the professor is a little gold nugget to be saved for a day when they will be asked for their opinion on something. As a previous science student I've had my share of note taking, but considering my programme does not have any exams I feel the need to listen, not scribble. What a waste for these people. As it happens, me and M talk in class whenever we feel the need to discuss something (related or not), and get the dirty looks from the bespectacled mafia (also know as the other students). We are not in high school. His notes are online. Take the sticks from out your asses people, the world will not end if you don't catch one sentence. As the most colorful, opinionated, bold, and vocal in the whole room, me and M are probably hated. Whoopee. Like I care. The thing is I survived high school as a popular, intelligent, athletic, well rounded girl and as a woman, graduate school is not the place where I will break. They can look at me, and judge me, feel smarter than me (because they take notes, and live in the library) and hope I flunk out never knowing that I've made it out one of the hardest universities in the world. Sorry if I'm not so impressed with your degree from Wolverhampton University (come on!). I don't need to flaunt my intelligence, I'm secure enough in my abilities that I'm fine staying quiet in class. And if I don't stay quiet it is not to announce that I'm smart. Honestly, I could give a shit. There is more to life than the few hours spent in a lecture hall. The class has been permeated with a bunch of drab, gray and khaki people. Boring to the point of comatose, and I look around hoping for a sign of life. All I hear is pen to paper and I'm forced back to M.

Yesterday, during a lecture about globalization, M leaned over to me and told me she absolutely hated all the people in that class (immature, but true enough). They are relentlessly pompous and if it wasn't rude to fall asleep during one of their speeches about "development" I would. Suburban, or in their case countryside England, does not give you much understanding of the third world. Stick to Yorkshire pudding. M's comment was followed closely by another stating the girl next to her was a cunt (harsh word, wouldn't have used it myself, but that girl is a prima donna prime bitch...my words). I do believe she may have heard M and then spent the next class they had together staring at her with evil in her eyes (despite the Virgin Mary bracelet adorning her wrist...what would Jesus think?). The dirty look, or dirty staring as it evolved to, shook M up. We met up afterwards (I'm not in that class) and she was very distressed and upset about it. I asked her how she handled it and she told me she just ignored it. You have to understand my surprise. M is a very vocal, outspoken, loudly opinionated woman of 30 years who has been to law school and is uncaring of others opinions. She argues and does not care who hears what and does not mind awkward situations of her own making. I believed, wholeheartedly, in her strength, and ability to defend herself. It seems that although I am more subtle than she is, less willing to be loud and the "quieter" friend next to her, I was stronger when it came to self defence.

I get angry when I'm attacked. I shake, my stomach rolls and my eyes get cold. My face changes, my voice alters and there is hell to be paid. I have the tolerance of a saint, but if you send me over I will give you the wrath of hell. Pacifism is fine for the everyday, but that doesn't mean that I haven't got another side to me. But apparently, M, does not. It was a shock to see her so upset and all I could think was, "just stare at the bitch back!". Intimidation tactics are so obvious. If you have real balls you'll come up to the person, but most people wouldn't dare, which is why they give you bad looks. Staring back is an unexpected surprise response for them and that will stop them right in their tracks. They're too scared to do anything more than look.

For all the friends I have, for all the people I like, I am willing to handle my share of enemies. Sure, it's very hard for me to dislike people, and I think most people would like me, but most isn't all. I'm prepared for that, even if M is not. The Bespectacled Mafia are people who probably don't like me. But who cares? I didn't like them first. It is because I had already decided they weren't "my" kind of people that I don't care if they don't think I'm their kind of person. There are billions of people in this world. I will love many, hate many, and defend myself against many more. I am ready to take that on. I survived high school, I can survive grad school however many gray and khaki people I have to get through. So my world isn't colorful when I have to get my education, thank God for me my whole world isn't my education. The rest of my life is brilliantly colorful, and that's where I reside.

The Single Girls Sacrifice

I'm secure enough in my own flightiness that I can acknowledge that some things just seem to go over my head. In my whimsical and not-so-fancy free state I can almost feel one of those things I perpetually "don't get" soaring past me, but this time, I reach up like an outfielder during a World Series game who dreams of being "that" guy, the one that makes the pennant winning catch. And I reach, and I stretch and grab that sucker inches from my curly mop and think to myself: I just won the goddamn World-fuckin'-Series!

So, what is it that I've caught, you may ask? It's simple, really, I've finally caught on to the idea that I am a living The Single Girls Sacrifice. It makes sense, which I immediately realize is the reason it has taken me so long to get it (catching speeding baseballs from the air has never been my forte). Pre-catch, I was reveling in the combo world of hope and cynicism. I didn't think there was more than that rock (hope) and that hard place (cynicism). By looking at those two emotions as the only ones I was allowed to feel I relented, I gave in to the idea that there was no more left to my dating life than the constant betrayal of hope and the persistent reaffirmations of cynicism. My two best emotions, now, lie side by side in a heap of multiple gun shots to the chest (umm, I might have got a little carried away with disposing of them....) and I am renewed. Wait, let me check again...ah, nope, not renewed just stuck in a new battle. Lovely.

The Single Girls Sacrifice. It seems to me that I have sacrificed meeting a half-way decent man with which I could have a semi-functioning relationship in order to have all the other things that are in my life. I have great friends, a wonderful family, an education that far exceeds many, and I've got a life that doesn't seem so shabby when I'm faced with all my other friends relationship woes (aka hellish nightmares). In my efforts to live a full life without a man I have created a life that will not give me one. Am I willing to give up what I do have for what I can't seem to stop wanting? Something that may not be what I've imagined it to be (the perils of Hollywood)? Will I chance my family, friends, lifestyle, intelligence, independence, mind, body, soul and spirit for a....man?

I'm straddling, people. The new age modern chick in me says "die old misogynistic ideas that a woman is never fulfilled unless she has a man" and the circa 1845 23-year old spinster in me says "Oh God, just marry the guy who has the pez dispenser collection! Do it now!" The rock is now being single, and the hard place is being married. Fucked from both ends, and it ain't pretty!

The Single Girls Sacrifice. The Modern Woman's Dilemma. Won't somebody please think of the women!? As I stare at the two very new notches in my rejection belt courtesy of two more men who have deemed me unworthy, I wonder, in great hope, if somebody will think of the women. The intelligent, attractive, accomplished, and independent women. It seems to me that we never think of ourselves, and men certainly never do.

God, I hate the feminist movement sometimes. At this very moment, I could be living in all sorts of suburban glory, birthing little rugrats and ironing my husband's shirt in a wonderful hoop skirt looking forward to making that pot roast and entertaining the neighbors over a home baked apple pie (from scratch of course). Suburban misogyny....take me away.

A love letter, a two-bit airport encounter, half a bottle of Chanel's Chance and 3/4ths of a dream that ends in a text that says "Goodbye"

A love letter, a two-bit airport encounter, half a bottle of Chanel's Chance and 3/4ths of a dream that ends in a text that says "Goodbye".

Love letters. Seemingly cliche things circa pre-90's before the advent of the email, the facebook, the text, the technological age of "don't-do-it-yourself". However, as has come to my attention, this is a prehistoric (as in pre-Billy Gates) ritual that is still practiced by a small group of people....who like pens, papers and postage. Evolved enough to write, but not enough to type. It is a well known fact that pressing buttons says I Love You more than getting your fingers dirty with ink (blegh!). I Love You is best left to computers. They know what they're doing. I mean, I trust them with my banking information, my google-Britney addiction and my illegal downloading activity (if it saves me from jail....). Why make a mix-tape when you can make an mp3 filled USB stick with hundreds of songs? Advanced, huh? I thought so. Don't write me a love letter, type me one. Don't give me a real hug, poke me on facebook (it turns me on more anyway). And don't you dare tell me you want to hook up unless you're going to send me at least 5 pre-interest texts, followed by 2 weeks of texting banter, slowly moving into the "do you want to go out?" text and ending with the I Love You text. It makes me feel better when I know you've engaged technology to show your emotions. Hard drive to hard drive.....you are my soul mate. (Look for my emails!)

Aiports are not relationship breeding grounds. As I have stated above, real encounters are extinct in the age of Lavalife, Match.com and 16 hour work days with co-workers that get cuter the more inter-office email you receive from them (Joey is especially hot in emoticon). Therefore, having met a guy at an airport I am forced to say that I had a weak moment. I had a moment where I believed. Believed in what, you may ask? In the normalcy of having a face-to-face encounter of pure impetuous, fated nature with a friend of a friend who lives my parallel penis life. And how do we facilitate more face-to-face interaction? By sending oh-so-lovely texts discussing how we feel about, well, about nothing. It is the vapidness, and word limit, of texting that has left me both empty and surprised. Empty, because there is no depth to using your thumb to express interest, and surprised because I have one hell of an efficient right thumb. And through the text wars I have learned texting etiquette I didn't even know existed.

1) There is a texting back time limit....and it's 5 minutes, people. (midgets stealing your phone, fires and death are the only outs)
2) To end the texting war you must explicitly use a parting line....example, "Okay, I'm heading to bed now." or "I'll talk to you later." or, the most popular, "Peace Out."
3) To text is to banter. Do not text in monotone, monosyllables or any other boring typing style. If I am using my extremities to be funny you better be using yours to be funny back.

Wearing Chanel's Chance is not like wearing a Superman cape. You are not invincible. You may smell good, but you cannot leap tall buildings in a single bound. Having said that, you can make the kind of impression that has men going from stoic to quiet. It's a step up thanks to the makers of Chance. Oh Chanel, is there nothing you can't do?

I end this blog with a text..........Goodbye.

Judge Not Lest Ye Be Completely Fucked

I make it a point to keep all my judgements (okay, maybe most of them) to myself. It is a safety tactic I use to avoid having my ass kicked or being sternly talked to (I hate being sternly talked to!). Just between us, let me be honest for a minute here: I love to judge what I understand, and most of all what I don't understand. I do this in my head to my great amusement, and sometimes slap myself on the wrist (in my head, of course) for all the naughty things I come up with. I have quite the articulate thought process. However, while I self-censor in this arena to the detriment of my moral ideals about my self constitutional rights, I do believe that it is for the greater good. How would the world be if all us judged each other in the most vocal ways? It seems we would be PerezHilton-ing ourselves to the fiery depths of hell. Epiphany: is that not exactly what we're doing right now? Why should I keep my mouth shut if Perez Hilton doesn't have to? Why does TMZ get to judge, humiliate and inform me on where I can see them do both, but I have to keep a lid on my feelings and thoughts. Why must I choke back words the sake of....decorum?

I have decided that although my ass may get kicked (and I will have to pay for self defence lessons) I deserve the same freedom, without judgement, to speak my own judgements on the current state of, well, everything. Freedom of speech, do you say? Why thank you, I'll take one! I will ignore the fact that I can hurt people's feelings, that I could harm my own image, and especially that it is not my place to judge. I figure if I couldn't be judgemental I wouldn't have the capacity to think. Or is it my capacity to think that should encourage me not to be judgemental? Hmmm, I haven't quite figured it out, but this isn't relevant. There are Britney's to discuss, neighbours to mock, friends to scoff at, and especially clever words to put together to articulate my judgements. No need to stop to think and wonder about the consequences. No time to evaluate the situation. No want to worry about the outcome. No, there is no time to judge whether being vocal in your judgements is the wrong thing to do.

Hmmm, maybe tomorrow I'll start with my neighbours who are having domestic issues (I think she's feeling post-baby fat blues and using jealousy to slowly drive away a husband who was originally more attractive than she was, which I judge to have also been a source of insecurity). Oh and the day after I'll get to my friend who's stuck in the worst has-been-over-for-the-last-2-years "relationship" with a guy who is a complete fuckhead (I think she's a masochist who is afraid she will not meet anybody better and therefore convinces herself that this asshole is the best she can do....and she does, even though I love her, deserve everything she gets). And finally, I'm going to touch on the fact that there are people I judge to be unattractive, stupid, uninteresting, and useless to my life....and yes, some of them are my "friends".

It seems judging people quasi out-loud in a blog is easier than I believed. And as of now no ass kicking as occurred. Maybe I'll keep this judging business blog bound. It feels rather "wrong" to take it out into the real world. I may re-think my decision, but as long as it's cool for Perez....well, I guess I can wait for my mom to do it, or I could do it myself. If Perez is going to jump off a bridge, would I do it too? No, but I sure as hell would judge him for it.

We Can't Be Just Friends

I have been the biggest proponent of men and women being friends. I was a living example. I've always had just as many or more male friends than female friends. However, the impossibility of such an arrangement becomes very evident when you are faced with one teeny, tiny, minuscule problem: the idea of not being the top girl in their life. In other words, your position in your male friends life is usurped by some random girl he ends up dating (ha! dating is so not allowed). As a friend you are not allowed to care that he spends more time with another girl, that he calls her more than he does you, that he touches her while you're around, and especially that she gets to touch him without even turning to ask you for permission! How rude! I was there first and I staked the claim years ago. It is neither fair nor legal (um, so I assume) to declare somebody else's territory as your own. It's actually very annoying to have to re-evaluate your position in someones life because some other person, an outsider no less, makes you question how you feel. And isn't how you feel the most confusing part? So, not only do I hate her for taking away my friend, I hate her for making me wonder if he is only a friend. It's just very....rude! And here I am, with multiple male friends, and short of peeing around them to mark my territory (which is gross, smelly and utterly useless for humans) I am faced with the certainty that all my male friends will one day meet a girl that will move up in the ranks ahead of me. And I hate this! Especially if there is existing ambiguity about the status of the friendship. Are we, before she comes along, just friends, more than friends, or maybe even less than friends?

I've spent the last month in Toronto rekindling a friendship with Aldo, who is somebody I've known since I was 8 years old. He had a crush on me in the 10th grade (as was clearly written in my grade 10 yearbook) and I've used that to my advantage over the years. I've always known he had a soft spot for me, and whenever I needed the comfort of a guy I would lean on him, hold his hand, cuddle and basically use him to salve my bruised ego (courtesy of all the assholes in the world). That makes me a world class bitch. I know. We stopped talking for a few years after we went to different universities but this past summer, before I left for London, we became good friends again. It helped that his closest friends are two of my closest friends (JMan, and Mac). Being friends again only made me realize why we were friends before. He's a nice guy, who is both solid and dependable, and although I've never been truly physically attracted to him, I have been attracted to the way he treats me. This is the problem. I love having him as a friend, but I don't know whether I like him in that way enough to want him to be anything more. But, because he had liked me at one point, I believed that the power was in my hands, that I could resurrect that "like" whenever I wanted. That "like" belonged to me before it belonged to anybody else, so I've become comfortable with the idea that it'll always be mine. In one form or another, I believed I would always be at the top for him.

Last night, for the first time in a long time, my position as the #1 girl was challenged by a girl I had never met before, Nikki. She's skinny, pretty and stylish. I hated her on sight, but unfortunately liked her the moment she opened her mouth. Ugh, I didn't want to like her. The dilemma was that for the last month Aldo has been "friend flirting" with me. Which means at dinner he would hold my hand under the table, touch me all the time, and wanted to spend alone time with me. We've always done this, dating back to high school, and I've allowed it, and at times initiated it because it felt good when other guys were always making me feel bad.

At JMan's house last night, me, Mac, and Aldo, plus Mac's cousin and her friend Nikki sat around watching a movie. I noticed a weird vibe between Nikki and Aldo, and then I took (or maybe stole) Aldo's cell phone to read through his texts (bad habit, but very informative). Needless to say after reading the first few texts I realized that Aldo and Nikki were "talking"/"dating"/"God knows what else". And I don't know why but I felt both anger and disappointment. As a result, he got the silent treatment for the rest of the night. And afterwards, when he drove me home, he asked if we could talk (because he so knew what I had read), and I replied, "About what?" and not sticking around for an answer promptly left the car to go inside.

Today I get a text saying he wants to talk and that he'll call me later on. I was intrigued, but by then I was safely behind my wall of indifference and playing the silent treatment game by way of the passive aggressive strategy. When we started talking he assured me he had really wanted to tell me, that he was only waiting for the right time, for the perfect opportunity, for when we were alone. The truth is, we were alone for an hour, in a car, the night before I had to fly out for London, and he chose not to tell me. It is by pure fluke (and Air Canada incompetence) that I'm still in Toronto and that I was around that night to catch that scene and read those texts (snooping is a beautiful thing....thank you Facebook for encouraging this behavior). For the last month, he actually went out of his way to make it seem like he was single, that he couldn't find the right girl, and was not even really looking for a relationship. The truth is that even if he had wanted to tell me he really enjoyed playing this back-and-forth, kinda flirtatious game with me. Telling me about Nikki would have ruined that. I may use him as a salve, but he uses me too. But, if he had a girlfriend I would stop playing our little game, and I don't think he wanted that.

I'll be honest, him having a girlfriend doesn't seem an insurmountable roadblock to me. I do think I could take him away from her by pushing the envelope with our mock flirtation, but I would never do it because it's shady and wrong and beneath me. But I'm not above thinking about it, maybe hoping for them to bomb and then being able to ignore him while I mock flirt with Mac (which I do anyway, because, well, he does it to me....oh I'm fucked). At the end of the day I told him that it didn't matter, that he owed me nothing, and that I simply didn't care (which of course I did, but he didn't have to know that). I took his insistence that he would've told me to mean that he felt a little guilt at having played this game with me when he knew he shouldn't have.

Oh well, I think this is yet another indication of why I had to write a blog about the battle of the sexes. It is much too hard to indulge in open feelings when they concern the opposite sex. The problem not only lies in defining those feelings, but also in figuring out how to deal with them in a constructive, productive manner. Whether you wonder how much you like one of your male "friends", or if the guy who told you he would call you so that you two could "hang out, and maybe grab a coffee" really meant it, you are a constant slave to the maddening man-woman thingy we all do.

As for a conclusion.....there isn't one. I'll just continue to be passive aggressive, hide behind the comfort of indifference and hope, that maybe, just maybe, 2008 will mean making more sense of the social aspects of my life. Perhaps, even understanding men and dare I say it, have a normal, healthy relationship with one. Oh God, now I'm pushing it....okay, universe do not come crashing down on me.

2008....Why have you been such a dissapointment?

The 1st blog of 2008 will start as such.......2008 has been one fucked up 4 days. End.


The very first thing I felt upon meeting 2008 was excitement and hope. My relationship with 2007 had been disappointing, at times surprising, but generally along the same lines as 2004, 2005, and 2006....boringly fucked up. I never speak of 2003 because it is too ugly, too sinister and much too depressing to even think about. I anticipated the coming change of 2007 into 2008. I believed in the power of the ball drop, the countdown, the exchange of the 7 for a brand, new shiny 8. And what I got was 4 days of pure, unadulterated hell as will be chronicled here.

December 31st, 2007: (Although this is technically not in 2008, it is the lead up, the prequel to the first truly bad moment of 2008.)
I planned to spend New Years at a friends house in Scarborough (East Toronto, but I'm from West Toronto...this will become relevant). When I got there I felt a strange tickle in my throat, which steadily grew into a massive mucus filled blockage which led to ear pains, and a bad case of smokers cough (even though I am not a smoker!). Later that night my car needed to be moved forward in the driveway to make room for other cars. However, because I was getting sicker and sicker, my friend offered to do it for me (it was ridiculously cold outside). When he returned I was too busy eating (I sometimes blame that awesome food for this) to take my keys back, but I figured I'd get them back later. I ended up sleeping over and woke up the next morning with no clue as to where my keys were. Leading to January 1st, 2008......

January 1st, 2008: Having woken up with the sole purpose of getting home to self-medicate with left-over antibiotics and Advil cold & flu liquigels (mmm, tasty) I looked around for my car keys. It is at this very moment my keys (for the first time in forever) were nowhere to be found. It took 5 people, 4 hours to search a one story bungalow for a set of massive keys (I have 10,000 key chains attached together) with no luck. At around 1pm, I spent an hour or so calling around to my friends (who were all passed out from the heavy partying of the night before) to get somebody to bring my spare set of keys from my house in the West, drive over to the East end, and then possibly help me dig out my car from a million inches of snow (I live in a condo....I remembered why that day, underground parking is heaven!). I finally got a friend (woke him up more like) to do all that for me. But, to this day, my keys have not been found. My theory? I believe it was the ghosts. What ghosts, you may ask? The ghosts of 'Make My Life Miserable'.

January 2nd, 2008: Besides being passed out, drugged up and depressed for having lost my keys, it was a pretty great day. Oh yeah, one of the very best ever (hear the sarcasm people).

January 3rd, 2008: It's simple, really, me and 3 girlfriends were going to shop in Buffalo for the day (Yay, Canadian dollar!) and were T-boned by some asshole American driver right as we finished with US Customs (Boo, American drivers!). He ran a 3-way stop, totaled the entire front right part of the car, slammed into us so hard the passenger door could not be opened, and had the front right wheel at the most awkward angle (and yet assured us it was okay to drive on the highway, for an hour and a half, back to Toronto....what a douchebag!). His '74 Chevy barely had a scratch. Fuckin American drivers with their sturdy retro American cars. We called the cops, somehow got the car back to the other side of the border (going 5km/h, over a bridge, on a single lane...I thought I was going to die!), and sat at McDonalds at Duty Free until the car got towed and somebody came to pick us up. So, a day that started at 7am, with an accident at 10 am, ended at 5 pm....with no new clothes to show for it. And on we go......

January 4th, 2008: I was supposed to fly back to London on the 11th, but due to extenuating circumstances (aka my brother losing his job with Air Canada) I had to leave no later than the 6th in order to keep my cheap, $220 standby roundtrip ticket to London. So, here I was (still sick) up at 5:30 am to catch a 9 am flight back to London....on standby (the word of the day). I check my bags, have a latte at Starbucks (which will be my only meal of the day, if lattes count as meals) go to my gate and....find out I can't get on the flight. When is the next flight? 6, fuckin, pm! I'm forced to go reclaim my luggage, get a new boarding card, BUT can't check in because you can only do that 4 hours before your flight. I take my mom's car keys (she works at the airport) drag my multiple bags to her car, and drive home to get some sleep. I come back for the 6 pm flight and no luck there either. I wait for the 8 pm flight and nothing. I give up and go up to the Air Canada desk where I'm told they've oversold on all their flights by 30 people, then downgraded 2 of their large planes to smaller ones. This meant that many full paying customers were going on standby...ahead of me. This didn't even begin to add to the fact that there is an employee seniority ranking in which I was at the bottom of! I was told, very bluntly, not to return until the 8th of January. The day started at 5 am, and ended at 11 pm....sucky?....I think so.

[On a sidenote, met a VERY cute boy during my long wait for the 6pm flight. More on that later. I don't want to mess with the general horror of the last 4 days by adding a small ray of sunshine.]

And so....2008 has been quite shitty. Does that mean I have more crap to look forward to? Or is this the downward spiral that only leads to an upward climb? I guess we'll see.

Oh yeah, and FUCK YOU Chevy makers!
Oh and you too Air Canada!
And you too, snow, for making me sick!
And a big FUCK YOU, to the first 4/365th of 2008! You truly sucked ass!