Another One Bites the Dust

T’is an odd thing. It seems I am incapable of posting on BP when I am happy. When things are going great. When I had seemingly found a really great guy. Seemingly. And so, now that it’s over, I am faced with the desire to talk about and share my unhappiness. Weird.

Things with the Scotsman were, until this week, amazing. I cannot remember the last time, if ever, I was with someone who was so, SO into me. And I him. I’d see the call display on the phone… or the message pop up on msn… or an email with his name attached… and I would be overcome with a sh*t eating grin like you would not believe. And this happened everyday, sometimes 2, 3, 4 times. We talked. A LOT. About everything. And when we saw each other, well, there was no doubt in my mind as to how he felt. Over the course of the past 2 months he became an extremely important person in my life. As much a friend as he was anything else, but so much more. I shared things with him that I had never shared with anybody… and he did with me as well.

This week?



Almost as if he had never existed at all… or perhaps I should say almost as if I did not exist at all. The thought crossed my mind that something had happened all accident-like and he was incapable of contacting me. Sometimes being uber crafty works against me… I know that he’s not lying dead in a ditch somewhere. So, now knowing that he is physically capable of letting me know that he is still alive, that just leaves the fact that he plain old just doesn’t want to let me know he is. After 2+ months of talking every single day and then not hearing from him for coming up 5 days… As that lovely book would say… He’s just not that into you if… he’s disappeared off the planet.

But here’s the kick. I can’t decide if I am more upset that it is over… or in the way he chose to end it. So explicit he was at the beginning about always being honest with someone, dissing somebody is something that he would NEVER do etc… Well, he’s done exactly that and I am so horribly disappointed in it.

Last night was the point-of-no-return for me. After unreturned messages (don’t worry, not in a bunny boiler 8 times a day kind of way. I called only twice since last speaking on Monday… Tuesday because we had ended Monday’s conversation with “I’ll talk to you tomorrow” so as to continue discussing what we were going to do on the weekend. Thus I did not think twice about not calling… and then last night because, well… I just plain missed him and wanted to hear his voice) and an unacknowledged email sent earlier in the week informing him that I scored a second interview for a job that I had been quite excited about for some time…plus not ever ‘logging’ in to msn (read “I’ve been blocked”)…

Last night was the night when things might have been able to get back on track. That I might have bought an excuse and/or accepted an apology. Now? I can scarcely think of a reason he could give me that I would not think is total and utter bull or that would justify his silence. On some level would he not think that I might be worried that something had happened to him? After all, he knows not about the craftiness of my nature so for all intents and purposes, he has been lying dead in a ditch for the last 5 days. It’s like WTF? Seriously. I am disgusted that someone who quite proudly stated when we first started talking about being the guy who restores women’s faith in men, why he chose to do just the opposite. To someone that he so clearly cared about on some level.

I am starting to grow weary of drawing boards…


Weird... could not post a title to save my life. If I could have would have been something along the lines of "Can't Wait for Posh's Show'. Cannot wait...

In the meantime, is it just me or do people who don't move their arms at all when they walk creep you out?


The Soundtrack of Love

I am here to tell y'all that there is nothing that kills the mood of a heavy make out session more than the sound of a child on the television detailing the woes of his incontinence...

Just an fyi...


And Now???

Anyone who knows me will agree on one thing. Well, probably a couple of things… my love of stamps being a little odd, one of them, but for sure one of my more negative characteristics is fairly obvious to most.

I am most impatient.

I hate waiting for things, anything. Oddly enough this seems like an illogical characteristic when coupled with one of my other negative characteristics… the penchant for being late for things, anything. I am trying so hard to not do this and in all fairness to me, I truly do try and leave early so that I will get somewhere at the appropriate time, say… work, but I swear to the good goddess above, whenever I leave early, something always happens to make me later than if I had only left at my originally planned time. The something that usually happens is usually the subway, or back when living on Slumington, the bus… or the fact that my parents seem to know exactly when I am running late for something and choose that particular moment to call. At any rate, I can’t actually think of one person who has not been at the receiving end of this particular attribute… and I really am very sorry. Of course it goes without saying that I hate it when I have the wait around for people, even 5 minutes… hence the dichotomy of my personality and people are just generally confused and annoyed because of it.

Oh, and I do apologize that you’ll be hearing about the same topic until who knows when. I figured it would be a nice change to hear about my love life as opposed to incessant ramblings about soccer, which in its absence (TFC excluded) has now been replaced with rugby, which I am slowly becoming entirely engrossed in… I love it. I can’t get enough. Continue to be miffed that I wasted the goodly portion of my younger years trying to like hockey because there was nothing else… I digress.

At any rate, Bea is in new territory here. Very new territory. That means that Bea is confused as she is apt to be when something new and unknown occurs. And of course Bea confused means that Bea will continue to work it out until she is no longer so. Except as this has to do with the testosteroned gender, the chances that she will never not be confused are slim to none. With more weight on the latter.

So my conundrum is thus. The Scotsman is into me. I think. I’m pretty sure. Mostly. At least by the way he talks it very much seems that way. He is very open and honest. Talks about his feelings like no one I have ever encountered. He also pays attention to everything that I say. And I mean literally everything. It freaks me out. We discussed this last night and in doing so I came to the conclusion that ever single guy I have ever talked to in Toronto has not given two sh*ts about anything I had to say. Ever. It took this man to make me realize this… and sadly, he is fully aware of this …

He’s the guy who puts faith in men back into women. Apparently. Women who then go on to marry the next guy they come across. Why? Because he teaches them that there are non-game playing and genuine men out there who truly care about women and see them more than just receptacles for the penis. And these women go on to hold out for that kind of guy. And to be honest, I have been wondering for some time whether they did exist or whether it was just some stupid urban myth that some sick and twisted individual cooked up to mess with our minds. At any rate, supposedly they do exist and I rather think I may have found one.

Now here’s the problem. He is an excruciatingly patient fella. Very patient. And despite being 40, is in no hurry to rush into anything. And by “anything”, of course I am referring to a sexual relationship. Because having a casual sexual relationship just ain’t his thang. Well imagine my surprise… Because my past history would have seemed to dictate that a casual sexual relationship was all that any man was interested in. Who knew such a man existed that did not want to jump into my giant king size bed on the first date? Well I surely did not. The problem? In a nutshell? Well, the old girl is still suffering from a bout of ye olde spring fever. And while I get that the best way of dealing with this fella is to not rip his clothes off when I see him again… Let’s just say I am not sure just how LONG I can wait for him. And this, my friends, is my dilemma. I shall attempt to deal with it as best I can …

This guy is going to be a challenge for me. And not a “let’s see how quickly I can get him into the sack” challenge. A challenge in a very different way. An emotionally-challenging challenge... sorry to sound redundant. A challenge in patience. An adult-like challenge I dare say. So, used to going out with guys who seemed only too keen on going ‘there’ very soon, and then of course not being interesting in any way shape or form after, it’s going to be difficult to break that bad habit that up until now I had been a willing participant in. To get used to a man who might be interested in me but who does not want to go down that path, like yesterday. To undo the emotional damage that I have experienced, although did not know it at the time and am still working on finding out how deep it runs, at the hands of guys who I thought cared about me but really didn’t. It sounds so pathetic. I sound so pathetic. But it is the truth. Sex is not an emotion. Nor does having it equate having emotions or feelings towards someone. In the past it hasn’t bothered me so much. But now, faced with, in the words of Monty Python, something completely different, kind of puts a different perspective on things. I am ready for my faith to be restored.

And I both fear and hope that he is right… I HOPE that having met him, whatever happens in the future I know now that men like him exist. But I FEAR that I will become another statistic for him… That he will undo all the bad habits and bad taste deeply rooted by my misadventures in dating land…years and years of meeting guys wholly inappropriate for me… only for me to go on and meet the man of my dreams and leave him, once again… the returner of faith in men.

Interesting non?


Why MSN Sucks

I had a moment last night where I almost cursed Molly to live a life eternally damned in the lowest pits of hell. After my date on Saturday she had spent the better part of the week telling me that in her humble opinion the Scotsman was into me but that clearly he was just shy. And that it would be up to me to encourage him, tell him I wanted to see him again, to make that first move. I fought her advice, even though it was really the most adult thing to do. After all, for once I had met someone who was not about playing the ‘game’ and so what did I have to lose?

And so late last night, after close to an hour of chatting via the internet about this that and the other thing, Bea was getting sleepy and really needed to go to bed… t was then that decided to do it. Enough alluding to future get-togethers, I wanted to hear something a little more convincing…

Bea says “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Scotsman says “Of course you can, anything”

Bea says “Well, I was just wondering if you ever fancied meeting up again at all?”

And then nothing… for SEVERAL minutes. Several minutes. Please refer to the opening line of this posting if you would like a hint as to what was going through my mind at the time.

Bea says “It’s ok if you don’t”

Bea says “I think I would just rather know now than later”

Bea says “I really enjoy talking to you and I thought you did with me so if you just want to be friends at a distance that’s OK”

Bea says “Like I said, I’d rather just get that out into the open now”

Bea says “Or not”

Bea says “It’s up to you”

Bea says ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot”

Bea says “Forget I said anything”

Bea says “It’s fine, let’s not even worry about it”

Scotsman says “LMAO”

Bea says “ :( “

Scotsman says “Me Mum came into the room right as you typed that”

So, um… yeah. It’s all good… of course he wants to see me again… for him it was a non-issue. Being confident and self-assured, it didn’t occur to him that I might need that. In hindsight of course, all signs pointed to yes anyway, but we all know I am hindsight blind as a bat… btw... Scotsman moved back home a couple of years ago when his mom got cancer... sweetness no?

Sorry Molly. Rest assured, if you end up damned for all time in hell, it will not be because of me.


A Tour of the British Isles

Well I’m crushing… and hard.

After my recent experience of the 40-year old Welshman who, as I may remind you, has since gone back to the country from whence he came, I thought to myself… What next?

Well. How about a 40-year old Scotsman? Sounds like a good a plan as any.

Actually the Scot came about more as a product of coming home tipsy one night about a month and a half ago from who knows where and doing a search on my favorite free dating site to look for someone, anyone who had soccer listed as an interest. I took off all the usual search criteria… 5’10’ or taller, 30-37 years old, non-smoker, lives in the same city as me etc… you know, the usual. I just wanted to talk footie with someone dammitt… Is that so wrong? As luck would have it, there was someone who fit my high expectations of nothing other than he was alive, lived in the same hemisphere and liked soccer. True, I didn’t actually look any further than the picture of him in his kilt when I wrote… but hey… a Scotsman in a kilt who likes soccer is my kind of people. So write I did… something that seemed cheeky at the time given my state, but was more than likely not. But he responded anyway and we began a very sporadic dialogue of sorts.

As I never had any intention of meeting this fella I’d be lying if I said that I had actually paid any attention to his profile. In fact Girl was the one who pointed out to me as we started getting more chatty that he was listed as a heavy smoker… something that usually would prevent me from contacting someone in the first place. Of course I had NOT noticed that until she pointed it out but told her just as promptly “of course I know that… it’s written right there”. It was then that I kind of figured that having a go at the rest of the profile couldn’t hurt… 5’8”, 40, living in a city outside of T-dot that may or may not being with a B and yes… the smoking. But in a weird twist of fate, at that point none of that bothered me. We still weren’t any closer than meeting up and at that point, he was just a fun guy with which to discuss my favorite sport.

And then things took a turn. I’m not entirely sure when it happened, or what was said initially to turn it… but it was something along the lines of “hey, you are really great… we should meet”. And I guess we kind of never looked back from that point. It kind of sucked because I enjoyed talking to this man… and yes, for once I can say ‘man’ as opposed to ‘guy’ or ‘boy’… and I was going to be really quite sad to lose that once we met and things did not go so well… as they are apt to do for me most of the time. But there was no sense putting off the inevitable. We met on Saturday.

I am not sure what I was expecting but lord was I nervous. It had been a very long time since I have gone out on a date with any sort of expectation over and above meeting someone as a possible friend. So I was nervous but looking forward to it more than I would have admitted to anyone I think. My first impression was that he was definitely not even 5’8”… something that in the past that has always miffed me. This time it didn’t. It didn’t at all.

I wish I had some juicy details but I don’t. The date lasted for close to 8 hours, during which time we talked about pretty much everything. Of course Bea was Bea and spent probably a bit too much time espousing her love for William Shatner and other various Star Trek actors… but I have since heard that is was endearing so I’m over it. But no juicy tidbits to share because it was quite possibly the most adult date I had ever been on with… a perfect gentleman who was raised to respect women. He didn’t jump me, we didn’t get hammered out of our tree and do something that we’d both regret… We just talked and laughed and generally had a nice time. It was an odd feeling spending time with someone like that. I hardly knew what to make of it.

And now? Not entirely sure. We’ve been in pretty much constant contact ever since but I think we’re both too chickensh*t to throw ourselves out there… to make the first move to ask to see the other again. We’ve danced around it enough though… so much so that my feet are getting tired from it.

Will keep you posted as further details arise.


God Bless the Welsh

Where to start?

I honestly just do not know. I guess the beginning would be best no? And the beginning began last Saturday. Actually it began on Friday night while out with the former roommie, Girl and our new English friend whose name is the same is a denomination of our currency and who will forever more be referred to as Pie which, I recently found out, is what her initials spell. We got together to watch a muchly anticipated movie that had Pirates in it. I think my feelings on this movie would be best expressed with this MovieKu:

Three hours, wasted
Please, give me my money back.
Pirates. Dead to me.

The plus side of the evening was that Pie mentioned she was heading to my favorite footie pub Scallys the following morning to watch some rugby. Now, I’ve never really known rugby… not had much interest in it save for drunken nights at the Velox Rubgy Club in University, which some of my university peeps can attest to. But Saturday morning footie is over for the time being and I’ve been feeling empty and hollow these past few weeks because of it. So I says, sure why not…

I arrive 11-ish the following morning to watch the Wales Australia match. And my week has not been the same since. For also in attendance were no fewer than 40 Welshman, ranging from ages 19 to 75, who happenstanced upon Scallys while in Toronto on a rugby tour. I felt like I had landed in the middle of “The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill And Came Down A Mountain”… It was hilarious. It was brilliant.

Now, had I blogged about this earlier, say Sunday… you would have had much detail on the Kangaroo court we were asked to juror, the shin raping that Pie received from a half naked Welshman who was displeased with the guilty verdict we imposed upon him for losing Moosey… or was it Lucy? I forget… or the random non-rugby Welshman in attendance who kissed me at 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon… or the sudden departure of Pie’s friend with a ’27 year-old engineer’ who was less of a ’27 year-old engineer’ than he was a ’22 year-old railway track layer’, or Pie’s equally sudden departure to test out how the stripper pole in her apartment would hold up against a naked Welshman… I’ll skip all that and simply say that I never really knew that having two naked Welsh rugby players on my balcony could be so hysterically funny. (By way of background, as I was explained later, rugby players have no issues with being naked around complete strangers, even if said strangers are fully clothed and laughing hysterically while taking pictures of them). So that was Saturday.

Sunday? Well Sunday was mostly about heading to Ikea to get a replacement beam for my Ikea bed. Which reminds me, I must have a word with the Ikea folks about how their products are tested. They should really be testing for EVERY contingency. Sufficed to say, they neglected to test what would happen if two 300lb naked Welsh rugby players were to climb onto the bed to pose for pictured being taken by a fully clothed girl laughing hysterically. Sadly I think Ikea really dropped the ball on this one. Sigh.

Monday was about stupid work which I am shortly going to have to do something about before I have a nervous breakdown.

Tuesday, also work but with the happy task of heading to watch the Welsh boys play the one and only rugby match they came on the week-long tour to play. They trounced the Toronto Scottish, which I was happy to witness, for a while back I had gone out with one of them and he had behaved very badly afterwards. So, happy to see their arses kicked I was indeed. We were then invited back to partake in the libations afterwards. As the establishment of choice was not but a 2 minute walk from my place we, and by ‘we’, I mean ‘I’ was happy to oblige. I am not entirely sure why we thought getting on their charter bus later to head downtown for more bevvies was a good idea, but I am sure our logic was sound as a pound at the time.

I sat at the front of the bus, with Bernard. Quite possibly the most adorable elderly gent ever. The young players on the tour be damned… We were more excited to listen to more of the silly, dirty jokes these fellows had regaled us with on Saturday than to talk to the ones closer to our age, who were mostly just bundles of testosterone with skin. And of course the singing. I’ve heard that every time a Welshman sings an angel gets its wings. Or is that a bell ringing? I’m confused. At any rate, we were very well taken care of by adorable men old to enough to be our grandfathers. That is not to say that they were not horny buggers too… That part of the story is perhaps better left for another time.

And of course my favorite of the two naked Welshmen from Saturday was there. In fact, my favorite of the two naked Welshmen was very adorable, thus making it kind of sad that he is, in fact a Welshman who lives in Wales. Oh, and married. But I am sure you knew that… because of course Bea could never meet someone proper. And now they are all gone, and somewhat thankfully I might add. From what I understand they were close to being run out of town with pitchforks anyway, most likely by the fathers of all the daughters they had sucked into their vortex of debauchery. Niagara Falls has no idea what is in store for them…

So in case you are currently keeping tabs, my current pecking order is as follows:

1) Irish… wall-eyed or otherwise (oh, an update on the Irishman from the subway last week… turns out he’s married… told you I am incapable of meeting someone proper).
2) Welsh… for no other reason other than the fact that I am sleeping again.
3) Scottish… I miss my Scotsman.
4) English… yes, for all of my blustering, the English are my least preferred of the British islanders right now. Although when it comes down to it, I’m not fussy t’all.

In case you are wondering where I will be every Saturday morning from now until the end of time... Yep, Scallywags.

I Feel Like I'm Taking Crazy Pills!!!

Who Knew Wednesdays Could Be So Much Fun?

I am sure I didn’t although generally Wednesdays are not as fabulously footie filled as yesterday was.

I’ll skip over work in the morning because I myself would like to forget it. As I would I would today’s fun-filled day of getting more work piled on my plate that I don’t have time for. I will also skip over the Liverpool AC Milan (boo, AC Milan) Champion’s League Final at Scallys because BOOOOOO AC Milan. However, Scallys is where our adventure begins so begin there we must.

A curious thing happens when all of your friends bail on you. You sort of kind of have to make your own friends. And so Bea did and it all was fine, except if we are counting (BOOOOO) AC Milan undeservedly beating my boys… and then things are decidedly not fine. However, the match ended and I was on my way to jaunt home quickly before heading to my second game of the day… Toronto FC vs. Benfica at BMO Field… when a colleague called and desperately wanted to have a drink before she had to go back to work (Scallys is about 1/2 a block from work). OK, twist my rubber arm. I did not NEED to head home necessarily; it was more to kill time before heading to meet my tall friend at BMO.

It was at this point that things took a turn for the weird. I am convinced that while I was not looking someone slipped an “uninhibitor” into my beer. Somehow, out of no where were all these men. Liverpudlian men to be more exact. And then Bea went INSANE.

To bring you back about a month ago, I happened to be at the same pub to watch the Liverpool Chelsea semi-finals with the above mentioned tall friend (Let’s call him TF), when this distinguished elderly gentleman who could not have been under the age of 95, and dressed impeccably in a suit the way that men of his generation are apt to do, hobbled his way across the pub and sat down in the last remaining seat in the place. It must have taken him at least 10 minutes to do what someone at the spry young age of 30-something could do in less than 5 seconds.

The fact that I had been saving the seat for someone seemed completely irrelevant at that point. Both TF and I were happy to be joined by this fella, whose name is Jeff. You so don’t need to know that… I just wanted to impress you all with the fact that sometimes my short-term memory actually works. It was quite precious to see how the entire staff doted on this gentleman… Jeff, is the lighting OK over here, is it too cold… I swear I have never had such good table service at that place than when this man was sitting with us. In addition to the wait staff, Jeff also knew all the footie regulars, for what we found out was that he came every Saturday and Sunday during Premier League season, at 7:30am, when the first games would start (stupid GMT) and stay until all the games had been played, which is somewhere in the area of 3ish. Sufficed to say that anyone who regularly attends any of the weekend games knows Jeff.

Including Alby. I’m sure my spelling is off which is probably for the best, but Alby is an Englishman…of course… kind of hard to judge his age. He is definitely over 40, and I would say closer to late 40’s… possibly early 50’s. He was hot, in that pervy Englishman kind of way, in that Hugh Grant pervy way. These AMAZING blue eyes that were utterly full of kindness and sincerity… and, I might add, much mischief. I noticed that the first time we met and we talked, though he was old enough to be my Dad, I was truly attracted to this gentleman. It weirded me out to be honest, but as I figured I would likely not see him again anytime soon, I just kind of left with the thought that if I was ever looking for a sugar daddy, Alby would have been at the top of my list.

I saw Alby yesterday and again, it was the weirdest feeling, in that I know it’s wrong, but damn he was hot. He also dresses hipper than most of the guys I know half his age… What can I say, when you’ve got it, you’ve got it at any age. Alby has it. Alby is hot.

But Alby was not the only man there. There were swarms of them… sufficed to say this is where I feel that something MUST have been slipped into my Carlsberg… possibly crazy pills, I am not sure… because when we were leaving, because I had to head down to BMO, I gave not one but TWO men my number… Alby being one of them of course. I have personally never done something as bold… I am a prude and I am lame… and I am a chickensh*t. But the crazy pills were working and so I felt no hesitation that this was the right thing to do. The curious thing to me, was that Alby was so taken aback, and not in the “yikes, run away” taken aback, but really genuinely happy and excited that I had told him to look me up whenever he happens to be in the city next (he lives in Oakville, which would be like living in Abbotsford if you lived in Van, but for rich people and not Mennonites). He gave me a little kiss on the mouth… it was really sweet. The other guy? No idea. I remember he had really small hands though…

Cut to not 30 seconds later at the street meat vendor on the corner. We came upon another Liverpool supporter who, as luck would have it, was also on his way down to BMO for the TFC match. Well obviously I could do nothing else but travel across town with a complete stranger so I left my coworker to her own devices and started the trek to Exhibition Place with my new friend who I met at the hot dog stand.

Oh, did I mention that he is Irish?

And once again the crazy pills kicked in. He had the most amazing blue eyes, as only the Irish are capable of having. Irish blue eyes on men are VERY subtle. You have to look deeply in them to notice, but they are intense… crazy intense… Even the wall-eyed Irishman had them. It was just hard to see them through 3 inches of opticular glass. But Dek had no glasses and was in fact so completely adorable it was all I could do to not steal some kisses in the subway… Why it is that I always come across Irish folk at Yonge and St. Clair and then proceed to get onto public transportation with them escapes me, but hey, the old girl ain’t complaining. At any rate, we totally hit it off and my mind kept wandering to my Irishman-boobies-orgasm theory which was greatly encouraged when he wanted my number. He came to visit me in my seat during the game which I thought was sweet. I’ll keep you folks posted if/when anything ever/ were to happen.

The End.


Also in the stands that night was this dude who I have been talking to recently, who texted and called me almost non-stop throughout the game. I ignored them for the most part, because I was there to watch footie dammit! But he insisted in waiting for me outside my gate if you can believe it. Well, as a million other people were also loitering outside I did not see him at first… “I’m wearing green shoes” means squat to me if it is very dark and I cannot see shoes. Luckily I had the foresight to tell him that I would shortly be exiting with the tallest man at the stadium so I pretty much stood out like a sore thumb. I said goodbye to TF and must have been walking for about 2 minutes when this person caught up to me. It was the most unexpected. But a nice surpise. He was quite cute… and seemed very nice. I talked to him today. He saw me but did not come and talk to me when I was saying bye to TF… he thought I had a boyfriend and that it was TF.

“But Bea, you always talk about your bf…”, he said today. I really must start being more careful when I joke about Peter Crouch being my boyfriend…

And what of my date from last week? Well, I have heard from him… a few quick back and forths but nothing along the lines of suggesting getting together again anytime soon. I’m quite not fussed now really… for who can think of other men when Alby is around… or the guy with small hands… or Dek, the non-walled-eyed Irishman… or Man with Green Shoes…


Dating for Dummies

So my date on Thursday night confirmed much of what I have learned-- as well as what has frustrated me-- over the past couples of years throughout these dating misadventures o’ mine. Certain truths are universal in dating and here, in no particular order, are a few of them:

1) If you feel like crap and desperately want to cancel your date because a night on the couch is so much more appealing than potentially finding your soul mate… you WILL end up having an extremely fun evening and feel like you have potentially found your soul mate… or at least someone that you would like to see again. Believe it or not, sometimes the latter is almost as difficult as the former.

2) Hearing things such as “The next time we get together”, “I’ll show you the next time I see you”, “I’ll email it to you tomorrow” and other such statements do not, in any way, mean that there will be a next time or that you will be shown something or receive an email about anything.

3) “I’m free Sunday” does not actually mean that he wants to do something with you on Sunday… or ever again for that matter.

4) Kissing on the first date means jack squat.

5) “We’ll have to do this again”, “I cannot wait to see you again”, “I’ll call you” and “talk to you soon” mean pretty much the exact opposite. Of course, that does not put an end to the kissing on that particular occasion. I’ve never understood the “I like you well enough right now to kiss you and tell you I really like you, but that doesn’t mean I want to ever lay eyes on you after tonight” logic. But I realize that I am as dense as a piece of wood.

6) “You are so funny”, “You are so much fun”, “You are so cool” and “I am having such a great time” are really very hollow statements. Personally I don’t say them unless I truly mean them but then again, I am a very lazy person.

7) Not hearing “Let’s do something on the day that I just now professed that I have free” when the date ends, instead hearing #5 (see #5) might seem perfectly lovely at the time… until the next day when one digests the fact that if he follows true to form with every other man you have ever gone out with, you will not hear from him again.

8) Thinking positive thoughts as per the former roommie’s suggestion is too much work (see #6, last line).

9) Not receiving a response to an email sent the morning after is never a good sign… He’s just not into you if… But…

10) Sending an email and have him not even open it and read it in the first place is even worse (and yes, he has been online… don’t ask me how I know this, I just do. I’m crafty like that). Funnily enough it’s #10 that is the worst of all the above. I should know, for I display the same behaviour when I no longer want to communicate with someone. If you think of it along the lines of “If I don’t open it then it appears as though I am not ignoring that person on purpose, just that I haven’t had a chance to check my email” logic, it makes sense. And yes, it is a total chickensh*t way to deal with things.

Anyway, so in short, the date went really well. It had been a long time since I went out on a date with anyone (think 2006) and even longer since I was actually interested in seeing them again afterwards. And kissing… Jesus lord, I can’t remember the last time I kissed someone. But, sigh, it was all for not. So sad.



Where's a dictionary when you need one?

So I have a date of sorts tonight. Some red flags up because he seems like a super busy guy which is the last thing I need. I swear that if it takes you a month just to find a spare bit of time to meet someone, you should re-examine your choice to date. I also kind of got the feeling that when he suggested meeting tonight at 8:30, which is FAAAAR later than my usual dating threshold for a weeknight, I got the impression that it was sort of an “if it’s not tonight then it ain’t gonna happen” kind of a deal. Under normal circumstances this would have caused me to come back with a “nobody buts baby in a corner” response. The only saving grace is that he was willing to come up to me, which almost never happens, and as I figured I could make the effort to walk the minute it will take from the door to my apartment to the door of the pub, I made to decision to go ahead with it. Of course all of this was before I got ickly sickles this week because of the metarded Toronto weather, which is murder on my sinuses at the best of times. I still might cancel… I haven’t decided.

Something on the boy front did happen this morning, and it kind of made me laugh. I’ve sort of been chatting on and off with this guy for a few weeks now. Not with any interest in it progressing any further than maybe possibly meeting at some point if it ever was convenient, as he lives far, far away in the not so magical land of Pickering. I refuse to think romance about anyone who lives in the burbs. If I had a car it would be one thing, but I’m just not in a suburbia frame of mind so it just makes little sense to bother. He’s also a full-time single dad. The fact that I will even talk to someone with a child is quite a new phenomenon for me. If I am not in the surburbia frame of mind then I am most certainly not in the under-age dependants one either. However, since my whole dating life has gone from shooting for the moon to sifting through the recycling bin, I can only chalk this development up to trying to not be so picky when it comes to who I will consent to date. I’ve gone from dating only tall and handsome men, to agreeing to go out with short and balding but yet still never married or mit babies ones… to being ok with divorcees… and now not fleeing to the high hills if they are so unlucky to be saddled with little mouths to feed that are not covered in fur. Harsh but there you have it.

So this guy lived no where near me and was a full-time dad to a 4 year old daughter. But our correspondence was sporadic at best and I could really have cared to increase it. Until this week. This week he has been oh so communicative. Always quick to say hi the moment I come online with Hi Cutie, Hi Sexy, I missed you… and other thoroughly genuine and not necessarily appropriate greetings. Cut to yesterday. I was at home feeling ick in the afternoon when he came online while he was at wok. We talked, about nothing in particular and he alluded to wanting to get together this weekend. I was like whatever. As I’m not up to a whole lot so it could have worked. Until we began a discussion about the United Nations.

Yep, the UN. Now, I will be the first to argue that there are problems with the UN. Although a great idea in theory at the time it was created, it is somewhat outdated. And it really only works if all of your members are on the same page. But when your most powerful member country… ahem, the US… decides to do whatever the hell it wants, the rest of the world be damned… that’s when the UN becomes a bit of a joke on the worldwide stage. That being said I think the UN is a great forum for discussing world issues, such as poverty, children and helping out in natural disasters… but you could easily come up with a more streamlined and efficient way of doing the same things… Anyway this is neither the time nor the place to debate to usefulness of such a body as the UN…

So the UN discussion eventually led to a comment along the lines of… “I can’t wait to sit down and debate this issue with you over a few beers.” Sure, why not… which then led to the comment from him of “Of course you know that will mean we’ll end up in bed together.”

Well, actually, I did not know that.

There are many things that could happen on a date that would maybe lead to one thing or another. Discussing the UN is not usually one that comes to mind. At any rate, I got his meaning, shrugged it off with a laugh, even though he kept bringing it up. Luckily it was 5 and he has to leave work and I needed to give Hugh tuna so it ended with an “I’ll talk to you later tonight”. Ok.

Cut to this morning… ‘Hey Bea, did you get my e-mail?” Nope, I’m on ghetto messenger and I haven’t checked this morning. So I check, and sure enough there is this email sitting happily in my inbox:

“Hey Bea. I wanted to talk with you about this tonight but you were off to bed. I want to tell you, up front, that things have changed in my life recently. For reasons that are my own, I've decided to reconcile with my former wife as it's in the best interest of myself and my daughter. I wanted to be honest with you.

I wish you all the luck and i enjoyed chatting with you.”

And the he spent the next 10 minutes apologizing for hurting me. It was all I could do to not laugh hysterically.

But here’s my quandary. When someone says ‘recently’, what does that entail exactly? Isn’t there some sort of cut off when using that word to refer to something that has happened? When I refer to something that has happened to me recently, my frame of reference usually leans towards the “last week/ over the last month” kind of time frame. A few days at the very least. As in “I recently went to my first soccer match”, I recently went to a housewarming party or “I recently saw Spiderman 3 and it was the worst movie EVER!” There was not more than 4 hours between wanting to shag me in front of the entire UN Security Council and writing the email telling me he was reconciling with his wife. To me that is not so much “recent’ as it is “right this second.”

To illustrate my point… if I had blogged about the footie game as soon as I had come home, it would have sounded like “OMG, I just got home from seeing my first big soccer game”, or “This party I just went to” or “I just the Spiderman 3 matinee and was so horribly offended by the whole thing that I want wash my eyes out with acid”… I think you get the picture.

Or maybe it’s just me…


It’s official.

I’m crazy.

Crazy for football that is! I attended my first big footie match on Friday at the new BMO field in T-dot. It was Canada vs. Argentina Under 20’s and I am not sure what I was expecting but it surely was not a close game that could have gone either way. Canada’s senior men’s team is sitting in a comfortable 84th place in the world behind such powerhouses as Qatar, Congo DR, Iraq and assholes Uzbekistan. Conversely, Argentina is 2nd. So I was expecting nothing less than an absolute trouncing and apologized in advance to my lovely new friend who happens to hail from the glorious football nation of England and whose name is the same as a denomination of our currency. Canada lost 2-1 but come on, that’s pretty effing good in my opinion. Up next on the docket is Toronto FC vs. Benfica next week on the 23rd… can’t WAIT!

More importantly I am happy to announce publicly for the first time that I have a new boyfriend.

Not a real one of course. For every day that passes that I am left twiddling my thumbs at home alone at night, I am convinced that being single for the rest of my life is where my fate lies. I must mention that this new boyfriend in no way replaces Crouchy, who will remain my one and only true soccer love forever and all time. But PC is in England. And I have grown wearisome of getting up at dawn’s early light on a weekend morning to support him and his un-requited love.

Everyone, meet Danny.

He’s my Toronto FC bf. To be honest, I struggled with this one. My first inclination was to TFC’s Baby Beckham, Jim Brennan. But Jim Brennan is not a striker. After careful consideration, weighing the pros and cons, Bea came to the conclusion that only a forward would be good enough for her. And of course he must be tall. Brennan comes in at a paltry six foot. I could not possibly drool over someone from afar who is, let’s face it, practically a dwarf. My second thought then gravitated towards the keeper, Greg Sutton who is 6’6”. I was first drawn to his hands which, when he is wearing his gloves during games, are about the size of those giant foam ‘We’re #1” monstrosities… what can I say, I see big hands and my mind immediately starts to imagine those hands on my boobies… But alas being a keeper is the opposite of being a forward so back onto the pile he went. From thereon I went through the roster… too young, too old, too ugo, too short, too inexperienced, too second string and so forth.

And that’s when I saw Danny. He’s still a relative midget at 6’3” but as he is also English and a forward, I felt I could make an exception for this shortcoming (no pun intended). He’s also that “English balding” type which I absolutely LOVE. I know it sounds weird but there is something oddly correlative between the size of British male genitalia versus the amount (or lack) of hair they have on their head. I’m still trying to work out the correlation between Irish male blindness and the female orgasm but as of yet have not been fortunate enough to test that theory out on multiple subjects. Too bad, so sad.

Anyway, turns out that in addition to being tall (ish), bald and English, Danny can also play the game. He will go down in history as being the first Toronto FC player to score a goal in competition ever. Do I know how to pick ‘em or do I know how to pick ‘em?


L'il Psycho

I’ve been learning some lessons recently about how looks can be deceiving and how some people can turn out to be completely different than what they at first appeared to be. Apparently this is not just a human quality.

I love my cat. He is really one of the most adorable things I have ever had the pleasure of coming into contact with. I would say that 97.25% of the time he’s the sweetest most loveable creature there is. I’m convinced that the reason I haven’t really been all that fussed about dating over the past year is because I get so much love from the little guy… more cuddles than anyone I’ve been with since I’ve moved to Toronto for sure… that I don’t miss regular male contact. Hugh is attached to my hip when I am home and when I leave my apartment I can hear him lamenting over my departure while I am waiting for the elevator. It breaks my heart.

However… the other 2.75% of the time? PSYCHOTIC. And not in a “aw, what a quirky little cat you have there Bea” way. No, it’s more along the lines of “call Father Bullock and tell him to break open the exorcism kit” kind of way. (For reference purposes, Father Bullock, or Father B as we called him, was our family priest. I think about him when I smell whisky because it brings me back to the age of 3 when he used to sit me on his lap and babble incoherently about this and that, his bulbous and veined nose featuring prominently along with the smell of booze on the breath. Gotta love the Catholic clergy).

Sadly, the psychotic 2.75% of him manifests itself in such a concentrated form so as to make the adorable 97.25% part of him easy to forget a lot of the time. Smashed vases (x3), ripped curtains (he likes to climb them), destroyed Chinese screen (by both claws it and pushed it over to it breaks… I’m running out of replacement screws), destroyed toilet paper rolls, plants eaten (even poisonous ones with no effect. If keeping track, the current favorites are white pansies and onions), closet doors opened and clothes shredded (he swings on my skirts), chairs peed on, garbage eaten, electrical cords chewed through, hands gnawed on in the middle of the night, semi-hourly under the cover foot attacks, anything not glued down to table tops knocked off, holes in the shower curtain, countless hours of missed sleep and other miscellaneous property damage.

I got a water bottle to squirt the little bugger when he misbehaves. Besides the fact that his demon hide seems impermeable to water, while I was not looking the little monster chewed the nozzle so that the most that comes out is a weak little dribble. Next on the shopping list is the Super Soaker 5000. After that? Power washer.

Finally the question that has been on my mind since I first laid eyes on him has been answered…

Why would ANYONE have given this little adorable guy to the Humane Society? Touché original owner… Touché.



Here’s the deal.

Summer in T-dot is closing in around us. Or rather closing in on me, I should say. I’m kind of a low to mid 20’s kind of gal, a coastal BC girl through and through. It’s not even the middle of May and we have a smog alert, as well as a chance of thunderstorms this evening. With both of these come VERY humid conditions, of which I have yet to warm up to, no pun intended…

I left home this morning with beautifully silken and straightened hair. Yes, I use a straightener, almost daily. For the most part because I am too lazy to make it look all purdy while blowdrying. I’ve never gotten the hang of using the brush to style as per the salon way of doing things. Oh sure, I can manage it one side of my head, but I usually try to not leave the house with a lopsided head. So the straightener has become my default beauty tool.

A much bigger improvement from when I was in my early teens when I thought that the way to a beautiful head of hair was to perm the sh*t out of it. But my hair did not want to be curly. So it often times needed two or three perms in succession just to get some body. Of courser this fried my hair so I really and truly ended up with Annie/ Carrot Top hair. And this was not helped by the fact that at the time I had a whole mouthful of braces and used to sun-in my hair like a fiend. The end result that I was perhaps the ugliest little tween on the block. Such was the case from about grade 7 to 9. And yes, believe it or not, I did have friends.

Long gone are those days, thankfully but now enters the evil humidity demon that plaques me to no end in this city. I spent the formative years of my youth trying to have curly hair only to be thwarted at every attempt. Now nothing, not even the most potent of styling products can prevent me from looking like this by the time I get to work:

Sucks to be me eh?

Je Suis Sorry

T’is a rare day when the old girl will apologize to someone about something she wrote on le blog. But here she is.

Former-PNB. It was a couple of years ago. I was such a b*tch. I’m sorry. I wrote many hurtful things. I myself was hurt. I liked him and he hurt my feelings. Such is life. I thought I was being creative and witty and self-empowering. What I actually was? Passive aggressive.

You see, he had hurt me. I did not realize it at the time but I wanted to do the same. So I posted about him. I posted things that while maybe were true for me at the time, were really not fair. We blogued. He hated me for a while. I hated him for a while. We made up during beers on patios. We’ve had our ups and downs. I wish we were less “let’s hang out when he feels like it friends” friends, but sort-of friends we kind of are. I’ll always have a soft spot for the guy.

I have a new friend. Or, at least I thought I did. Sadly I was wrong. To make a long story short, he was untruthful to me from the very beginning. Circumstances changed for him and me being the type of person apt to give people second chances (I am SO lame), I gave him a second chance. I know it sounds weird and under normal circumstances I would not have… but my stupid subconscious sort of convinced me otherwise. Things were really great for a while… then of course I had to get stoopid “pre” spring fever… wink wink. He suggested perhaps he could help me out with my little conundrum. I was like, hells yes, why not.

Nothing ever happened. It just never felt right. For either of us. I think it was more fun just fantasizing about it. But hey, I’m an adult. If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be. I believe in threes… if after three times something does not happen, that is the Universe’s way of saying NO DEAL. Besides, he had hid MANY important facts from me and was all in all quite duplicitous so it was all for the best. But based on the way the whole acquaintanceship happened, I should hardly have been surprised.

And then very recently things got weird. Couldn’t put my finger on it. I knew something was going on and did question it, but was assured all was well blah blah blah.

And then, Bea got Bea’d. Zing.

It’s been several weeks now. And consistently things Bea does have been getting the “You know what I hate about Canadians… Everything Bea does…” treatment. I’ve tried not to play into it because that’s what us who are apt to be passive aggressive folk want. We want to make very general observations about very specific people. And we want a reaction. I did it with the PNB so I know. So I tried to hash things out in person. Only to be “You know what I hate about Bea? Bea?” ‘d. Actually, I think I was “quote un quote” called “presumptuously egotistical”. Which is really quite funny when you know me, for I am quite the opposite I think. But then again, my presumptual egotisticalness could be preventing me from realizing this in the first place. I need to find a way to channel this for I have often felt that I lacked in the ego department… to my detriment of course.

The end result? Well besides surmising that this individual read me wanting to have a little fun with him in the bedroom with me being interested in a relationship… There are so many things wrong with this that I cannot even… He just plain made me feel like a giant sack of rotten turtle shells (ew, beach smelly). I could not control what he had written for all to see, and even when I had tried to discuss how he had made me feel not for the world to read, and I thought it was over and done with, he continued to humiliate me, even when I as much as asked him not to.

And so now I know how I made the Former-PNB feel. Or not, for he may not have cared at all… But I was childish and immature. And I wanted a reaction. And I was too much of a chicken sh*t to let it go. Granted he is not a girl and never pms’d like the old girl has been doing for the last week. But still, in the future I will endeavor to always tell someone to their face when I take issue with something they have done. In this case I tried and it blew back up in my face so I must wash my hands of the matter.

PNB, I’m sorry for all the grammar school drama I threw all up in your face. Oh no you di’int… Oh yes I did. And I deserved everything you threw back at me.

T’is a pity because I really did enjoy sleeping… sigh.

Humbly Yours,
Bea "That Karma B*tch Slap Got me Good" Petty


Calling Dr. Frood

Clearly my subconscious is trying to tell me something(s) right now. The last two nights have been riddled with some of the most vivid and bizarre dreams that I may possible have ever had… Some of the images contains wherein include:

- Being urinated on by cutoff jean short wearing trailer trash biker types (In fact one was quite reminiscent of my meth-head, Hell’s Angel’s associating trailer park living Uncle… I’m sure I’ve mentioned him. A few Christmases ago, my gift from him was a 4L jug of summer wiper fluid that he had stolen from a construction site. He was SHOCKED to learn that I both lived in Toronto and thus would not really be able to carry the 30lb jug back east and that I no longer had a car).

- My Dad dying and me not being remotely sad about it. My biggest concern was that both my brother and I forgot to tell my Mom and we debated at length as to whether we should call her at work to tell her that her husband had died, or wait a few hours until she got home.

- Living in a kind of cottage farm where the animals roaming the field were monkeys. Scores of monkeys.

- My English Chemist proclaiming that he was gay (This KIND of makes sense because last weekend he sort of developed a man-crush on CBS’ boyfriend)

- Buying a Peter Crouch t-shirt for $5.99.

- Being able to see the Horse Nebula with my own eyes (even in my dreams I’m a nerd).

- Being severely annoyed at not being able to eat at Meze’s, a wonderful Greek restaurant on the Danforth. It was shortly after this that I blew a hissy fit at my parents who were visiting, who wanted to eat at this ghetto mall… I took off in a huff and proceeded to shop in said ghetto mall, which is where I scooped up my Peter Crouch t-shirt. Shortly after my Dad died. Did I kill him? I may have… I can’t remember this detail… I was most put out about not being able to eat at Meze’s though. Also, I’ve been uber craving souvlaki lately… If it was socially acceptable I could have eaten it for a week straight!

- Watching TV in front of work colleagues with no pants on. Where were my pants? No freaking idea. But I wasn’t fooling anyone with that blanket wrapped around my bottom.

There is more… oh yes, there is more, but the rest makes even less sense than the above. Do I hate my Dad? Monkeys? Am I gay? Was I Greek in a previous life? Do I have deep down desire to parade nude around the office? Do I secretly wish to participate in water sports? And where does Peter Crouch fit in???



The Joys of Being Me

You wanna know something weird? That I just notice about myself?

I apologize A LOT.

It must be the Canadian in me; we are after all apologetic by nature… but still.

I’ve noticed that I’ll say sorry in response to pretty much anything. I don’t actually mean it… not in the way that you do when you are truly sorry about something heartfelt such as “my dog just died” or “I broke my ankle and now it has to be amputated.”

To me, apologizing unnecessarily is like breathing. Normal people react to everyday dilemmas and occurrences with responses such as ‘yeah’, ‘darn’, ‘that sucks’, ‘really?’, ‘uh-huh’ etc... I, on the other hand, respond with ‘I’m sorry’.

If something happens to someone that is not totally 100% positive, I’ll say that I’m sorry… You were late for work? I’m sorry.

If something happens to someone that has nothing whatsoever to do with me, I’ll say that I’m sorry… Your favorite show was not on TV last night? I’m sorry.

If I do something that requires no apology, I’ll say that I’m sorry… It took 0.002 seconds longer to get out of my apartment because I have to jimmy the latch with a steak knife… Lord knows I am SO sorry.

My elevator smells. I’m sorry.

It’s raining out. I’m sorry.

I’m tired. I’m sorry.

I didn’t win the lottery. I’m sorry.

My cat ate my homework. I’m sorry.

I missed the Ikea sale. I’m sorry.

The batteries are dead on my flashlight. I’m sorry.

I need to get batteries for my flashlight. I’m sorry.

I went to get batteries for my flashlight but the store was closed. I’m sorry.

I accidentally threw my flashlight out the window and it hit that circus clown. I’m sorry.

I need a new flashlight. I’m sorry.

I think you get the picture. But like any bad habit, it can be kicked. I just need to replace my automated “sorry” response with something else right? Any ideas? Oh, you don’t have time to help me out with my little problem? I’m sorry.



To Buy or Not to Buy

Here’s my dilemma.

I love living in the “western world” (please do not get me started on the chick who was on “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader” the other week who could not answer the “What hemisphere is North America in?” Um? The Eastern Hemisphere? Um? Retarded? I swear I almost threw the TV off the patio… Also, it would also be nice if no one questioned just WHY I was watching “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader.” Please and thanks).

Living in the western world definitely has its perks. Especially being a woman. I can walk down the street as I please-- wearing nothing that would denote the lower status that I am lucky enough to not have, telling the government to go to hell, worshipping who I choose (or not) and making out with wall-eyed Irishman in the subway station, etc... Perk after perk after perk. And while I will likely never go so far as to join the armed forces to try and bring such perks to countries who may not have them (and who we feel should)… I like to think that deep down, some nations could stand to be brought into the 21st century, at least insofar as they treat their womenfolk.

But every so often, something occurs where I really question why we fight to maintain and justify the lifestyle we have grown accustomed to. It happens frequently actually. Designing and manufacturing gas guzzlers when there are already too many on the road and which we don’t have the fuel to make them run as it is springs to mind… movies with Billy Bob Thornton… Paris Hilton… Crocs… Sanjaya… etc... you get the picture.

So the question at hand…

Can I really defend a society that has spent countless years and millions of dollars on developing and marketing a spray-on salad dressing?

The answer my friends? Not very well and certainly not with any conviction.

Please do your part and resist purchasing what may be the laziest form of consumerism since disposable toilet brushes…

It’s not rocket science… It’s a salad.

Thank you for you attention in this matter. Please do not hesitate to contact me should you have any questions.

Kind Regards,

Beatrice Petty

What Happened to Beatrice?

Hello Beatrice-blog readers!

Beatrice sends her apologies that she doesn't have time to blog lately. She's busy, you see. Too busy to even tell you what a fabulous weekend she had. I (her former roommie) know this because she has yet to tell me how her weekend was. My simple MSN'd question "how was Blades of Glory?" was met with silence - and then she went away. I'm left only with my suspicions - and speculations. And we all know speculating makes an ass out of you and me... But here goes.

Last week was uneventful, except for Friday night - when she attended her weekly Philately Group followed by her Anglophiles Anonymous meeting (which it should be known she only attends to find out where to meet British men).

As the meeting drew to a close, a fellow Anglophile revealed that she had recently gotten to know a British man with bad teeth, crazy hair and long, lanky legs which he consistently tripped over. Beatrice immediately inquired into his current whereabouts. This was simply too good to be true. And, it was possible, if he was also a 'football' player (or even a fanatic), Beatrice was pretty sure she'd explode like the Chicken Lady from Kids in the Hall.

It turned out he was a fellow hooligan (is that even what they call themselves?) and a British ex-pat. And he lived in her building. Bawk, bawk, bawk-AHOHAHOH!! says the Chicken Lady.

Beatrice then spent Saturday following him not-so covertly, "accidently" knocking on his door (pretending she was looking for a friends' apartment), bumping into him on the elevator (which she rode up and down for three hours waiting for him) and picking his pocket in the parking lot (a man's wallet can provide valuable insight into his inner workings).

This climaxed Saturday night, when, at the local English pub - after Beatrice's 5th Guiness - she finally uttered "hello" to the Hot British Guy (HBG) she had followed there.

He took one look at Beatrice and said...

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

This was followed by a painfully long silence during which HBG searched his memory banks and Beatrice prayed he wouldn't remember any of the day's stalking 'incidents'.

He didn't.

The two then proceeded back to his apartment - where they shagged happily ever after.

The end.

While Visions of Sugar Daddies Dance in My Head

The dating? Hmmm. Not going great. Truth be told though that online dating was as much of a pastime for me as was hanging out with my friends which were few and far between in this city a couple of years ago. Was I seeking friendship via that route more than a relationship? Possibly. At any rate, if I had the really great circle of friends that I seem to have stumbled across over the last couple of months back in the pre-Lava days, I would hedge my bets that I would never have gone on. Shocking, I know.

But meet then just now I did (and yes, there are tall men in the picture… and tall British men in the picture… and somewhat tall British women… and the usual suspects that have been a part of the Bea scene for ages… there are just more… and they all seem to get along splendidly) and online I remain, but not for any other reason besides the fact that I get bored at home alone at night during the week.

Enter “Sugar Daddy.” The other day I received an email from a fellow asking if I would be interested in a sugar daddy type of arrangement. It was interesting. I mean, who hasn’t joked about wanting a sugar daddy or mamma? I know I have. And frequently. Would I ever go through with it? I actually never imagined that I would ever be faced with that decision.

I had always thought that “sugar children” belonged to the world of the beautiful people. You know, those women… they are tall and blond. They have big boobs and high pitched voices. They wear high heels and short skirts. They don’t drink beer. Besides the boobs, which are only big right now because of the beer (I will not get into the other thongs that are big right now due to beer because that would take too long), I kind of don't fit that mould. Besides those folk, who would ever think that would be a possibility? More importantly, who would make that decision to sell their soul… or body… for money?

Well I’ll tell you… It’s temping. For the truth of the matter is that while I work at an organization that invokes the response of “Ooh… that must be amazing. You are so lucky. How’d you score that?”, it kind of is not all it is cracked up to be. To start with, it pays shite, so I always find myself having to choose between either doing fun things like ski trips, concerts and the like or, say… paying rent. Stupid rent.

Blah, blah, blah… looking for a new job… blah, blah, blah…

“Also if you would be interested in a sugar daddy style situation please let me know, and no it doesnt have to be just about sex! :) (Really hope that doesnt offend you)”

Yes, the lack of apostrophes offended my sensibilities, but I did laugh quite heartily when I read it.

But could I?

The answer?


It is not as if I have never dated men with disposable income, though they seemed to be few and far between. The Former-PNB despite working about 20 minutes a week, goddess bless him, is quite well to do. Did I ever reap the benefits of that? Well, besides the fact that the boy keeps a healthily stocked liquor cabinet… No. Sadly, he is a proud card carrying member of the “Will avoid spending money whenever I can” Club (PNB… LOVE YOUUUUUU, Bea says in a Peter Griffin voice). It never bothered me one iota… and I never felt like I was trading fancy dinners out etc… for sex. Other than the fact that I felt somewhat silly when he wasn’t interested in me in any serious fashion, I left the whatever it was we had with my dignity in tact… although I did become a mega bitch afterwards for a few months… and I drunk dialed him one night while going home one night in a cab. I’m not sure what I was thinking other than that he lived right down the street from where I was at the time and in my drunken state it just seemed logical that I could crash there. But about a block later I had completely forgotten… what can I say… I’m fickle (and was really drunk)…

Anyway… back to the point…

I may be lonely… I may be horny… but I definitely deserve better than to be someone’s kept woman…

God damn morals… I really wanted those Toronto FC season’s tickets!!!


10 Fun Facts About Red Wine

1) A mostly full corked bottle of wine on the kitchen countertop is (apparently) very tempting to a kitty who is apt to get up to mischief when left alone all day )and when not alone but that’s not for here)

2) When a mostly full and not very tightly corked bottle of red wine is knocked over by a mischievous cat, it’s contents may spill all over the kitchen

3) When red wine has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and left to sit for several hours, the red wine will stain the white countertop (but not the white refrigerator or the microwave if you can believe THAT)

4) When red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop has had it’s fill of staining said countertop, it will move on to bothering the cream coloured ceramic tile floor

5) When red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor, it will stain said floor if left for hours

6) The grout between ceramic tile is VERY porous and absorbs liquids quickly and with great enthusiasm (not really a red wine fact, but now you know a little more about grout than you did this morning)

7) When red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, the grout between those tiles will for ever and all time be the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over the white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat

8) A mischievous cat who spills red wine may take great pleasure in watching his owner try and clean it off of white countertops, cream coloured ceramic tiled floors and previously neutral coloured grout, but he will not help you do it

9) After cleaning red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, with the grout between those tiles for ever and all time the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat, all you really want to do is have a glass of red wine

10) Wanting a glass of red wine after cleaning red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, with the grout between those tiles for ever and all time the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat but then NOT being able to have one because all your red wine has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, with the grout between those tiles for ever and all time the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat is SURPRISINGLY annoying



How is it possible for any sane and half intelligent person to forget to buy toilet paper for close to a week?

How about if said person has been completely out of toilet paper since then?

Seriously, I need to know this… because everyday for the last week I have come home from work, football matches, movies, Wine and Cheese Shows, foot rubs etc… only to use the facilities and go “G*D D*MN M*TH*R F*CK*R F**************************************CK no toilet paper… again.” Thank F*CK*NG goodness for Kleenex.

Anyway, so just wondering when I should start to be worried about the state of my brain. Or is it too late?

Bea's To Do List:

Get toilet paper
Return 3 week late copy of Borat
Get toilet paper
Buy new umbrella
Get toilet paper
Find someone to give me back rub
Toilet paper
Do laundry
Toilet paper
Find new job
Toilet paper
Back rub. Me. Someone
Get toilet paper
Get sinuses fixed
Get toilet paper
Replace DVD player
Get cat food, preferably not tainted with poison


Daily Rant

Here’s my little beef du jour…

Why is it that people insist in putting butter on sandwiches and/or wraps? It makes no sense. You can’t taste it to speak of, but you can always feel the layer of mushy pastiness amidst the other foodstuff contained within the sandwich and/or wrap. So I am trying to figure out the rationale behind adding this extra ingredient when it serves no purpose whatsoever except to mess up a perfectly good sammy.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a lover of all things butter… no Becel on my popcorn for me thanks… and there is nothing better than smothering a freshly baked piece of bread with the creamy goodness that is butter… salted of course, because there is nothing more useless than unsalted butter. You might was well just smother your food in lard, which, while very important in the pie crust baking process, is kind of icky when you think of it.

I had an experience recently with duck fat. Was over at a friends place… who I see frequently so perhaps he needs a BP moniker… TBD as required. Anyway, went over for dinner… loverly dinner it was and on the menu was Yorkshire pudding… which I love to death. Well apparently the proper English way of making it is with globs of duck fat which, to a person who likes neither duck or heaps of animal fat, I was slightly disconcerted over. But as I was the guest and he was so generously cooking this fabulous meal, I kept my mouth shut. While waiting for the YPs to bake, the thought did occur to me to flee the scene so I wouldn’t have to deal with the duck fat however, I decided that would probably be rude. After all, it was I who pretty much insisted that he cook the darn things in the first place so I decided to suck it up and just deal with it… fully aware that I am the pickiest and worst guest since the earliest cavemen began inviting friends over to their caves for some roasted wooly mammoth. I’d be the cave wench asking if there was anything else to eat besides the mammoth… or if there was gravy. Because I have to imagine that mammoth is really gamey and someone like me, cavewoman or no, would absolutely need a nice rich gravy to tone down the mammothy goodness. Anyway, my point was that in the end I ate it, but part of me questioned why I was eating a pool of duck fat with every bite. To end this bit of my rant…

To the person who cooked that dinner and who may possibly read this at some point… The dinner was amazingly DELISH and it is my problem, not yours that I am such a freak when it comes to food. I could go into the deets of how I used the former-PNB as a lab monkey when tasting food at the Wine and Cheese Show yesterday, but I won’t.

In conclusion, butter on sandwiches and/or wraps suck!

Thank you for your time.


Life's Little Reassurances are Fun!

I don’t think it’s any secret to the people who see me on a regular basis to know that I have had some thoughts about moving back to BC. If you didn’t well now you know. I have had thoughts and I have had many of them. They are the same thoughts that I have always when I start getting antsy and being thinking that my life would be better if I lived somewhere else. However, I am fully aware that this is a terrible pattern in my life… thinking that they grass is always greener on the other side of the street, or in my case, the other side of the country… or if I am being truly honest, a completely different country altogether. But if Toronto has taught me anything it is not the place that makes your life, it is you that needs to make your place your life. What does this mean? It means that thoughts of wanting to flee in the middle of the night with my cat and the clothes on my back aside, I am determined to make Toronto work.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that things are always great for me here. They are mostly but I have a lot of frustrations too. My social life leaves something to be desired much of the time. Some weeks are fabulous, others are just so-so. A person only needs to read snippets of BP over the last couple of years to know that I am completely incapable of meeting, communicating, dating and/or keeping a boy around long enough to learn his last name. I have come to terms with that but it’s still rather annoying from time to time.

So, whatever, I have these thoughts of leaving that I try not to think about because, much like not being able to hold down a relationship for any length of time, I find them annoying. But apparently my subconscious has other ideas…

Last night’s sleep was not a very restful one. I fell asleep OK but was awoken at various times throughout the night by whatever disruptive activity my cat was engaged in at the time. I am here to tell you that you have not been rudely awakened until you have been rudely awakened by a small domesticated animal attacking the sh*t out of your hand and arm… But when I did sleep, man did I ever dream…

I can’t remember where, when or in what context I heard this in but apparently hearing about other people’s dreams is one of the most boring things you can be subjected to. I guess I could agree where it not for the fact that my friends have some pretty interesting dreams and I always enjoy hearing about them. I have been known to have some doozies myself… How could I ever forget my Charlie Sheen tampon dream? Clearly I cannot…

In a nutshell, in the dream my Mom was coming over to pick me up to take me home for the weekend. In the dream I was horrified; sick with anxiety because I just wanted to stay home and live my life. In my dream I thought to myself “don’t do it, don’t go back the BC, even for the weekend, you’ll regret it”… And in the dream(s) I was writing… doing lots of writing. But the moment that I started to think about going back to BC, I could no longer put pen to paper. When I made up my mind to call and cancel my BC weekend with the folks, I felt free… And thus was essentially the way the rest of the dream played out over and over.

So, a few things spring to my mind when I began the analysis this morning… The first and most glaring point being that it’s possible that I hate my parents. But I don’t… the thought of spending two solid weeks with them so soon after Christmas may leave me with heart palpitations, but I know that come November I will be itching to get back to see them. So I am pretty sure this wasn’t about the folks. What I’ve decided to take away from the dream is that good times or bad, Toronto is exactly where I need to be right now.

Inhale… Exhale… Smile…

This is great news!


Fun on Random Tuesday

Further to a posting from the other week regarding the great friends I have in Toronto… Additional proof in that my friend RC scored us a couple of sweet arse front row centre tickets to see We Will Rock You last night. It was really good and highly recommended… but being a Queen fan is a must.

Which I think would be pretty obvious. If not I imagine it would be like me going to see a show inspired by the music of Hootie and the Blowfish. There are many reason why this would never happen, starting with the fact that I actually attended a Hootie and the Blowfish concert (for free… again, friends are great) for real a short while ago and it was without a doubt the worst waste of any evening to date in my life.

So I could not even IMAGINE what a musical would be like and who would actually have that much disposable income to waste on purchasing tickets for the show in the first place. Anyway, clearly the two groups are not even in the same category and I truly am sorry for comparing one of the worst bands ever with one of the best… Freddy Mercury is probably rolling in his grave right about now…

Who’s excited about the England vs. Israel game on the weekend? Anybody??? Why do I hear crickets???


Another week...

Another St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone. I would be lying if I said it was all I had hoped it would be. To begin with, Girl and I didn’t get to go to our usual place which had always provided us with much entertainment and we ended up at a place with little St. Paddy’s Day to-do with people who were set to leave before the night had even begun. The end result was that by the time I had hooked up with people who wanted to do SPD right, I had mostly lost the taste for it. Also not helping was the fact that the new face cream that I had bought that same morning was doing it’s best to eat through my skin. I looked like a cross between a leper from biblical times and a three-degree burn victim. Hardly the ideal conditions under which to put ones best face forward. Truth be told I was more pished that my facial disfigurement (which has since mostly healed) made it impossible for me to, um, what’s the word I am looking for? Oh yeah… meet anyone who might possibly have been up for a night of fun… But I am over it so let’s move on shall we?

Wait a minute, I am just now remembering that despite the flesh eating disease that was my face some bloke did come up and talk to me. He reminded me of Scott Savol from American Idol a while back. Except this bloke was wearing one of those teeny tiny little leprechaun hats… which only served to make his giant bald head even more giant and bald (don’t get me wrong balding men do it for me… I have a theory about the less hair you have and the larger the size of the penile unit… but that’s not for here). Anyway, I conveniently found a boyfriend so that ended that chapter of the night. What? I might be in my sexual prime but I’m not desperate dammitt!!!

And speaking of not being desperate… fantasizing about my giant friend putting his giant hands on my boobs aside, I’ve been kinda hush hush on my love life of late… Of course there hasn’t been one really to speak of so that could have contributed a wee bit. Also contributing perhaps was a seemingly complex relationship with a friend that had me kinda holding off on meeting some of the other peeps who I’ve been in contact with lately just to see where it might have gone. I am not completely sure why I am such a retard when it comes to understanding the law of the land vis-a-vis interpersonal relationships but sufficed to say that I am retarded and I really need to stop taking things that people say to me at face value… or at the very least get some clarification before I run with something. It’s all good, but I did have one of those “Oh, OK… that’s the way things are” moments earlier today. It could never have been anyway so praise the goddess for the way it turned out.

So what that means is that I’m Back Baby… I’m kinda due for a relationship and thus the dating process begins anew… Not like before because I think I would die of exhaustion. Because sometimes when I am bored and I want a little reassurance that I can actually amuse and entertain people with my writing when given the chance, I look back on the past couple of years in Toronto and what I’ve written… and I sometimes think to myself:

“Dude, what the eff was I thinking?”


PS... Re: the pic... put it up for no reason in particular, except that GB is almost naked (he is in my fantasies)... and he's reading (not usually part of my fantasies but I think I can work with it)... because Gerry is so much more than just a pretty face... Am I right girls?


Dear Iran,


How are you?

I am not sure if you know who I am or not. I’m Beatrice. I write this blog. It’s mostly about the happenings in my life here in Toronto. My loves, my laughs, my friends, my heartbreaks, you know, the usual.

I’m an Aquarius and my favorite colour is green… grass or hunter as opposed to lime (in case you ever wanted to buy me a gift). I have a cat. He’s pretty cute except he keeps me up an awful lot at night. I’m single, but not really looking. I mean if Mr. Right fell from the sky then of course I’d be all over that. Anyway, enough about me…

I hear you have an issue with my boyfriend’s new movie. Something about it portraying Iranian culture as barbaric and war mongering? Hmmm, well yes it may have done that, but just in case you missed that class in Ancient History (or that part was simply omitted from your text books completely), Persia was quite the little Conqueror Nellie in its heyday. I am not saying that’s a bad thing. Goodness knows that Canada could stand to be a little more aggressive from time to time. It does tend to get a little boring being the nicest country on the planet. I am led to believe that we would monger except that our military doesn’t have enough gas to really travel anywhere. Maybe you could help us out with that? But this isn’t about Canada and our evil ways, this is about you Iran.

So you think that 300, which has never claimed to be the most historically accurate film ever, is a plot by us westerners to further drag your name through the mud? T’is true, the Persians were the baddies in the film, but they were not the only baddies. The Spartans had their fair share as well. They also had to deal with the strong homoerotic undertones that were oh so prevalent throughout the film. I have yet to hear Greece express outrage at being portrayed as bi-sexual leather undies wearing blood-lusting men with funny helmets…

Further to my point yesterday about people being particularly sensitive about an issue when one comes uncomfortably close to being caught in a duplicitous act…

Iran, are you planning on taking over the world? The reason I ask is that you seem particularly sensitive to the fact that a movie set thousands of years ago, during a time when you were hell bent on taking over the world (or what you knew existed of it anyway), may or may not have caused people to think bad things about your modern-day culture which, for all intents and purposes is really nothing like the Persian civilization from so many millennia ago. Because honestly Iran, until you made your stink, I really never put two and two together. When I think Iran, I think oil. I think fundamentalist Islamic regime. I think Holocaust denial. I think potentially dangerous nuclear program. But I can honestly say that I have never thought highly sophisticated, albeit ruthless ancient civilization.

But now you’ve got me thinking. I’m thinking that is isn’t so much that you are pissed that the world will discover things about your past that have been readily available in history text books since Allah knows when, but that you are pissed that the world will discover something about your present that you were hoping to keep secret just a little longer… say until you were ready to, like, you know… try and take over the world again?

Just a theory.


No Means No…

So why can’t I say it? I have some ideas, so let’s explore shall we?

Maybe some of you remember a fellow from a way while back. Actually, come to think about it, I am not sure if I even mentioned the sitch on BP. At any rate, a while back I went out with this dude. For lack of anything better to call him, I will call him DVD-Stealing-Fake-Ankle-Breaking-Inconsiderate-Poopy-Face Man… DVD Stealer for short. Anyway, we went out. Had a great time. Got the usual “we’ll have to do this again blah blah blah” line, which was somewhat unnecessary because we had mutually exchanged some Digital Video Disks that would obviously need to be returned at some point. 4 weeks and about a million very inconsiderate and likely bullsh*te excuses later, we still hadn’t met up. I guess you could say that any future possibilities for the relationship ended when he conveniently broke his ankle in 13 places. It wasn’t so much the ankle breaking that did it… No, I think it was more the fact that he may have had some issues with me calling him a liar liar pants on fire. Who knew someone could be so sensitive about that?

I’m sure I’ve already spouted my theory on catching people in lies. T’is my experience when you call someone on something that is not true and they get super angry and defensive and turn their anger and defensiveness back onto you, that they are simply reacting to the nail being hit on the head… Do I believe for a second that this guy as much as stubbed his toe? Um, no. Anyway, since then… and I would say it has been a good nine months or so, he pops back into my life every so often… we must get together for drinks, I still have your DVD etc… like so many other men that I have known in this city: Former PNB and the Disappearing/ Reappearing Train Conductor are just a couple that spring to mind.

The truth is that I don’t want to meet up with this guy again. There seems to be little point. I don’t want House Season One back now. In fact, I have been quite happy with Ali G. And what, we meet up again once? I don’t trust this guy as far as I can throw him so I couldn’t date him. I guess I could have my way with him to get it out of my system, but assuming that he isn’t the liariest liar that ever lied, I’d be too worried I’d break his ankle… so that’s out.

But I cannot say it. Do you want to meet up for drinks this week, he asked. I couldn’t say no. And I am angry at myself because of it. I owe him nothing. He certainly made no attempt to spare my feelings and in fact, was quite capable of dissing me and then making me feel bad because it wasn’t his fault he was so busy. Anyway, I imagine that I’ll continue doing the same thing that I have been, which is coming up with excuses as to why I am not free on such and such a day but that next week looks pretty open… but darn, I wish you had written me yesterday because now I am COMPLETELY booked again… but next week looks pretty open… but darn, I wish you had written me yesterday because now I am COMPLETELY booked again… but next week looks pretty open… You get the picture. I am such a scaredy cat.

Darn it Bea, just say no!

Bea “Where’s my broken ankle?” Petty


Last Weekend I Dined in Hell... Beers at the Firkin


So in continuation of the Gerrypalooza that last week seemed to become… who knew that a picture of Gerard Butler’s crotch would have garnered so much interest amongst the ladies on the internet? Certainly not I, but thanks to all the horny women (and men… come on… I know there were a few) who visited last week!

Anyway, 300. Saw it this weekend. Enjoyed it muchly more than I expected. Muchly more. It’s always hard, when a movie gets so hyped up, to try and be realistic about what that movie will actually be like. Snakes on a Plane springs to mind. In fairness I never saw it and except for the brief obsession I had with the Samuel L. Jackson prank phone call thing, I really didn’t give the film that much thought. It also occurred to me that being a Frank Miller affair, that it could be very similar to Sin City which I would have enjoyed a heck of a lot more were it not for the psychotic kidnapping cannibal character. Dudes, I had nightmares about that guy for weeks. As such, I was really nervous about 300. I really, really wanted it to be good. I really, really wanted to like it. If for any other reason than GB seems like a normal and level headed guy who just likes to make movies.

I wanted this for Gerry.

Do it for Gerry.

As luck would have it, my anxiety was all for nothing. For, IMAX debacle aside (did it occur to me that I might have needed to get the tickets before an hour prior to the showing? Yes. Did I get tickets before an hour prior to the showing? No), the movie was great. It was filmed beautifully. The story was what it was. The acting? Meh, likely no one will win an Oscar. But the battle scenes? Fabulous. They somehow managed to make dying a violent and horrible death on the battlefield beautiful and poetic. I was also impressed with the way the portrayed the ancient Greek battle phalanx but that is only because I am the hugest and dorkiest history nerd ever. It also explains why people laugh at me for such nonsense frequently. But a history nerd I will remain and laugh at me you will continue to do. Oh, and crazily buff men in little leather undies… lots of ‘em. Oh, and the hotty from Love Actually… Oh, and an apple.

And while I have you all here, would the person who called me at 6am this morning only to hang up when I answered PLEASE not do that ever again? There is no greater annoyance on the planet than being awoken by the phone when the only calls one gets at that time of the day are harbingers of bad news…

That is all.


Gerry Gerry Bo Berry


Ok, so what can be said about Gerard Butler in the flesh? I think Holy Mother of God sums it up rather nicely.

Sadly, no chance to interact with the man because he was in a bit of a hurry to head to the Much Music studios so we had to be satisfied to be front-row seated just 20 feet or so away. CBS was quick enough with the digital to snap this pic as he walked past us. Colour me crazy but I think the picture looks great… Very editorial, as they would say on America’s Next Top Model… which I missed last night… but who can pass up a night filled with GB and $3.50 martinis? Not this celebrity stalker and/or boozer!

But who needs editorial when you’ve got Gerry’s skivvies? Obviously you don’t. Editorial can go to hell in a hand basket for all I care. In fact, almost anything can go to hell in any sort of basket next to the thought of naked Gerry Butler… preferably naked Gerry Butler in my apartment. To prove my point, here’s a close up. And yes, you can chalk this up being celibate since the last ice age. So now the question begging to be answered… Appropriate use to the colour printer at work? You tell me…


Quiveration Nation

Ok Folks,

Here's the dealio. I am lame. I always have been. And soon to publish the greatest book EVER aside... I probably always will be. However, that has not stopped me from having the coolest friends ever.

Case in point? Celebrity Boyfriend Stealer.
Celebrity Boyfriend Stealer (CBS) steals celebrity boyfriends. And not in the "So-and-So is number one on my top 10 list of favorite celebrity boyfriends so you can't have him" kind of way. No my friends, CBS plays the "Oh yeah, well I've been invited to a premier party with So-and-So and I am going to party with him until the wee hours of the morning and here are the pics to prove it" game. Yeah, it's a dirty game, but one she chooses to play nonetheless.

The celebrity in question that fateful September 2005 was everyone's favorite blue-eyed Scottish man-god Gerard Butler. The celebrity still in question is everyone's favorite dreamy blue-eyed kilt wearing, haggis loving, sexiest accent ever Scotsman Gerard Butler.
Yep, it's true, Now happily coupled, it would seem that CBS is on the path to redemption. For after having so ceremoniously trumped me years ago, CBS is healing the hurt vis-a-vis the whole stealing the one celebrity bf who meant so much to me. How so, you may be asking yourselves? Try THIS little ditty on for size:

The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos. Tomorrow. Tickets (courtesy of CBS). Gerard Butler is the guest. Me and CBS. CBS wearing a boob top. Boob top = getting to chatter with GB. Getting to chatter with GB = OMG might DIE.

I hope I don't die.