And now onto a juicier topic than my flatulence.
New territory I think for BP, and one that will possibly be resurrected from time to time as long as the Newfie Gooner and I are hangin'... You'll have to be patient with the old girl, possibly relating this topic to your own experiences (or not... no skin off my nose)...
One of the things that has surprised me more than anything with the NG?
The sex.
I know.
EW!
As we all know, I am not a virgin.
(As an aside... I wonder what the average 'number of sexual partners' average is these days. I remember when a girl was considered a hoslut if she had slept with more than 5-6 guys in her life. WTF? Seriously? I'm not going to even start to talk numbers, but the fact that I cannot even remember the names of all of mine, let alone how many...)
Anyway... my point being that I may (MAY) have been with more than 5-6 guys in my life. And while I have always enjoyed sex, I always just assumed that the fact that I was generally not totally over the moon DURING the act of sex -- for me it was all about the grand finale -- was a girl thing. As in, it felt OK, but it wasn't really until the you-know-what that you were reminded why you even agreed to do it in the first place. There were more than a few times that if, for whatever reason I was unable to, (mostly due to the selfishness of my partner I might add. Like seriously... 1 minute? What are you? 15?) I actually could not get to sleep that night. I guess kind of like a guy in that respect. I should have excused myself to the bathroom to finish. Or demanded satisfaction in another form. You live and learn.
Knock on wood, things in this respect with the NG are AMAZING. Like... AMAZING. Like a glove, I guess you could say. It's a perfect fit. And truly, for the first time that I can remember, I enjoy the pure act of it. If for some reason, the grande finale chooses to not make an appearance (I'm tired/too much beer/I'm tired, etc.), it doesn't matter because it was so nice. So much so that we've had many discussions about it. Again another first for me... being with someone who is open and willing to talk about that sort of stuff, and more importantly, who I am open and willing to talk to about that stuff with. It's generally about how each of our stuff likes the other person's stuff. And wants to do stuff as much as we can (evil Mother Nature showing her ugly ass face aside, I might add).
TMI for sure, but it makes me think about that whole 'you should wait until you are in love' shite that we are taught our whole lives. Am not remotely near being in love with the NG of course, but it does make for some interesting food for thought...
Thursday
Tuesday
Who Farted?
A strange topic for today’s discussion, but one that has been on my mind for several days now.
I’m a gassy person.
There, I’ve said it.
It’s out in the open.
No turning back now.
Being a gassy person has usually not been much of a problem for me these past few years. Having lived no my own for a while now, I have been free to be as flamboyantly flatulent as deemed necessary. Because who is going to hear me, other than Hugh, whose opinion in this matter I hardly care about.
Specifically I am a morning gas passer and will happily lie in bed for a few moments before getting up, tooting away to my hearts content. Again, not been a problem for the spinster that I have been for so long.
Things, however, have changed of late.
I am sort of, kind of, maybe, perhaps not single anymore. Not to get too excited about it because I really don’t know WHAT we are, but he is a lovely little Newfie Gooner (is from Newfoundland + supports Arsenal football club = Newfie Gooner) who I met a few months ago. We started off as complete and utter friends, and not even in the “I am going to say I just want to be friends even though I am open to the possibility that maybe we might like each other in ‘that way, but at least this way I won’t feel like a loser if you don’t like me” kind of friends. But ‘just friends’ we are no more, and in fact, I can’t remember having met such a wonderful person, guy or girl, in a very long time. Yay me.
But whatever… if that was what this posting was going to be about, it would have been titled “Someone Who Bea Likes Actually Likes Her Back… Hell Apparently Frozen Over”. And besides, who cares about that when there are clearly more important issues to discuss… like my farting.
Backtracking to last weekend, after a lovely visit to the former roomie’s new house out in the ‘burbs, my Newfie Gooner opted to spend the night at mine, despite my cat and his predilection for using NG as a drop zone target from atop the bookshelf beside my bed.
But did I sleep? No… Why? Because my body decided it hated me. Never in my life had I been more gassy than I was that night. It was painful even… Unable to toot at will, the cramps started… the horrible cramps, with air threatening to leak out loudly with every movement I made, with enough wind stored up in there to power a small country for decades. Which meant that trying to be sneaky and let it out silently was never going to happen... and one can only get up and go into the bathroom, turn the water on full blast and flush the toilet like 8 times in a row to muffle the noise so many times in the course of a few hours.
It was horrible.
HORRIBLE.
So I guess the question is… what the hell is a girl supposed to do???
I’m a gassy person.
There, I’ve said it.
It’s out in the open.
No turning back now.
Being a gassy person has usually not been much of a problem for me these past few years. Having lived no my own for a while now, I have been free to be as flamboyantly flatulent as deemed necessary. Because who is going to hear me, other than Hugh, whose opinion in this matter I hardly care about.
Specifically I am a morning gas passer and will happily lie in bed for a few moments before getting up, tooting away to my hearts content. Again, not been a problem for the spinster that I have been for so long.
Things, however, have changed of late.
I am sort of, kind of, maybe, perhaps not single anymore. Not to get too excited about it because I really don’t know WHAT we are, but he is a lovely little Newfie Gooner (is from Newfoundland + supports Arsenal football club = Newfie Gooner) who I met a few months ago. We started off as complete and utter friends, and not even in the “I am going to say I just want to be friends even though I am open to the possibility that maybe we might like each other in ‘that way, but at least this way I won’t feel like a loser if you don’t like me” kind of friends. But ‘just friends’ we are no more, and in fact, I can’t remember having met such a wonderful person, guy or girl, in a very long time. Yay me.
But whatever… if that was what this posting was going to be about, it would have been titled “Someone Who Bea Likes Actually Likes Her Back… Hell Apparently Frozen Over”. And besides, who cares about that when there are clearly more important issues to discuss… like my farting.
Backtracking to last weekend, after a lovely visit to the former roomie’s new house out in the ‘burbs, my Newfie Gooner opted to spend the night at mine, despite my cat and his predilection for using NG as a drop zone target from atop the bookshelf beside my bed.
But did I sleep? No… Why? Because my body decided it hated me. Never in my life had I been more gassy than I was that night. It was painful even… Unable to toot at will, the cramps started… the horrible cramps, with air threatening to leak out loudly with every movement I made, with enough wind stored up in there to power a small country for decades. Which meant that trying to be sneaky and let it out silently was never going to happen... and one can only get up and go into the bathroom, turn the water on full blast and flush the toilet like 8 times in a row to muffle the noise so many times in the course of a few hours.
It was horrible.
HORRIBLE.
So I guess the question is… what the hell is a girl supposed to do???
Monday
To Love or to Hate, That is the Question
Before I start; a few things. Yes, I am officially unemployed. By choice. It’s both weird and absolutely lovely to not have to get up at the sound of an alarm clock. True, I could be like those morning types who regardless of plans/ no plans/ weekday/ weekend still set their alarms to get up at the crack of dawn. I gave up long ago trying to pretend I was one of those people, just like how I gave up sometime ago that I gave two hoots about hockey (I’m convinced that any sport where the men are too pansy-assed as to have wear padding is not a sport for me). I like to sleep in dammitt! I also tend to have my bestest and most deepest sleepest between 5am-8am so… if I don’t HAVE to get up, I won’t. Plain and simple.
That being said, I find it curiously easy to get up before the sun has risen in order to get in line at my local on a weekend morning. I, along with my insane friends, are mildy obsessed with getting our favourite booth. So much so that it’s no skin off our noses to be in line at 7:30am on a Sunday morning in -10 degree weather (pub didn’t open until 8:30am) in order to get said booth and watch a match that does not begin until later in the morning. Laugh if you will but there’s a whole little subculture that exists of us folk here in Toronto. Come and join us sometime if you don’t believe me.
I was with one of the above mentioned insane peeps last Sunday to watch my beloved Liverpool get soundly trounced by the evil Mancs. Boo… And something somewhat disconcerting has been going on with him of late.
Of course he was someone I met online… and there was a tiny possibility at first that something might happen. Any hope of that transpiring was resounding quashed when it was discovered that he actually IS one of those morning types who set their alarms at the crack of dawn no matter what day it is—you have not seen an irritated Beatrice until she is woken up to the sound of music blaring at 6:00am on a Saturday morning and not turned off despite repeated requests to do so. Anyway, friends we became and he met someone shortly thereafter. They dated until quite recently.
It ended very abruptly and quite without warning, only 3 days after it was decided they were to move in together in a few months time. Said friend was devastated and rightfully so. He had fallen in love you see. How very sad they whole thing was. I was sympathetic. I wished for him to heal soon so he could jump back onto the dating wagon and wook pa nub again.
Well, soon for him meant just two days later. Needless to say I was somewhat horrified. I told him as much a few weeks later when I discovered that he seemed hell bent on dating as many women as he could while seeming to have little to no respect for any of them. He admitted to me he still had feelings for the girl who had only just recently broken his heart. I asked him why the eff he was even going through the motions of dating… blah blah blah… told him about some of the experiences that I had… went in one ear and out the other apparently… because since that time, things have only gotten worse.
It now takes all the strength in my core to sit through a two hour soccer game, all the while listening to someone who I at once thought was quite a decent bloke, regale me with tales from the half a dozen or so girls he saw went out with that week… not to mention the same number from the week before… and the week before that. But it’s not the math that disturbs me. After all, there was once a time when I deemed it an unproductive and unsuccessful week if I was not out on a date 5 out of 7 nights… So I am careful to not be a hypocrite.
What does upset me is the way he talks about them… When pressed, he still professes love for the ex. His face then promptly clouds over with anger and bitterness, only to then move on to satisfaction as he talks about his bird, that bird and the other one, who liked him but who he can’t wait to throw in the ditch as the next one is on the docket in just a few hours time. He gets very defensive when questioned about his motives. I am very saddened at this turn of events…
He’s clearly trying to get back at his ex by hurting as many women as possible. What to do, what to say???
That being said, I find it curiously easy to get up before the sun has risen in order to get in line at my local on a weekend morning. I, along with my insane friends, are mildy obsessed with getting our favourite booth. So much so that it’s no skin off our noses to be in line at 7:30am on a Sunday morning in -10 degree weather (pub didn’t open until 8:30am) in order to get said booth and watch a match that does not begin until later in the morning. Laugh if you will but there’s a whole little subculture that exists of us folk here in Toronto. Come and join us sometime if you don’t believe me.
I was with one of the above mentioned insane peeps last Sunday to watch my beloved Liverpool get soundly trounced by the evil Mancs. Boo… And something somewhat disconcerting has been going on with him of late.
Of course he was someone I met online… and there was a tiny possibility at first that something might happen. Any hope of that transpiring was resounding quashed when it was discovered that he actually IS one of those morning types who set their alarms at the crack of dawn no matter what day it is—you have not seen an irritated Beatrice until she is woken up to the sound of music blaring at 6:00am on a Saturday morning and not turned off despite repeated requests to do so. Anyway, friends we became and he met someone shortly thereafter. They dated until quite recently.
It ended very abruptly and quite without warning, only 3 days after it was decided they were to move in together in a few months time. Said friend was devastated and rightfully so. He had fallen in love you see. How very sad they whole thing was. I was sympathetic. I wished for him to heal soon so he could jump back onto the dating wagon and wook pa nub again.
Well, soon for him meant just two days later. Needless to say I was somewhat horrified. I told him as much a few weeks later when I discovered that he seemed hell bent on dating as many women as he could while seeming to have little to no respect for any of them. He admitted to me he still had feelings for the girl who had only just recently broken his heart. I asked him why the eff he was even going through the motions of dating… blah blah blah… told him about some of the experiences that I had… went in one ear and out the other apparently… because since that time, things have only gotten worse.
It now takes all the strength in my core to sit through a two hour soccer game, all the while listening to someone who I at once thought was quite a decent bloke, regale me with tales from the half a dozen or so girls he saw went out with that week… not to mention the same number from the week before… and the week before that. But it’s not the math that disturbs me. After all, there was once a time when I deemed it an unproductive and unsuccessful week if I was not out on a date 5 out of 7 nights… So I am careful to not be a hypocrite.
What does upset me is the way he talks about them… When pressed, he still professes love for the ex. His face then promptly clouds over with anger and bitterness, only to then move on to satisfaction as he talks about his bird, that bird and the other one, who liked him but who he can’t wait to throw in the ditch as the next one is on the docket in just a few hours time. He gets very defensive when questioned about his motives. I am very saddened at this turn of events…
He’s clearly trying to get back at his ex by hurting as many women as possible. What to do, what to say???
The "P" Word
Today, I feel weird. Besides the fact that I still feel like a “P” word (but the THE “P” word) from my uber cold that just does not seem to want to go away… I am also crampy and grumpy and bloated as per usual when another “P” word that is not the “P” word in question plays a visit… there is something else a foot that is causing me to feel odder than usual.
You may all be curious to know that I wear, what the French call, le thong. I have for a really long time. I wasn’t super quick to jump on this fashion miracle. After all, I grew up on a small island that had little use for such things. It’s possible that my friends wore them University but as we rarely discussed the “P” word and sure as hell did not “P”rance around in our knickers, I wouldn’t really have any idea. At any rate, no one extolled the virtues of le thong to me and, up until I started working for Club Med and had to dance around in a white unitard while playing the ever-so-sexy Jenny Annie Dots in our rendition of Cats, did the notion of wearing le thong so as to remove those unsightly visible “P” word lines even enter into my mind.
Welcome to 1999 Bea.
Now, of course, I wouldn’t condescend to wear anything else. Oh sure, les thongs definitely took some getting used to but at the end of the day, they are just “P”lain more comfortable than anything else. You’ll imagine my horror of going into my unmentionable drawer this morning to discover that I was in desperate need to do laundry!
Ugh… and so I was forced to do the unthinkable.
Why I even still have a pair of granny “P” word thingies is quite beyond me. In fact, I have several. I can’t remember the last time they were worn, if ever. My brain has a theory that my Mom bought them for me once upon a time and I never got around to throwing them out. I must say I am thankful for them today though… While I have no problem going commando when the occasion calls for it… A workday in the middle of winter is definitely not that occasion.
But it wasn’t as simple as just putting them on and beginning my day. I had to be very careful that the outfit I wore was such that any VPL would not be detectable to the unaided eye. I am shamelessly critical when I see VPLs on women (“tsk, tsk, in this day and age… UNACCEPTABLE”). On men? Well, really and truly there is no excuse… it causes me to go down a road that I really don’t want to go down. For when I see a man’s tighty whities visible under his trousers, I can’t help but visualize this person in all their unde-roo glory. Sadly, the type of fellow generally still wearing these types of undergarments is exactly the kind of guy who you really have no interest in imagining in their undies… It’s the most vicious of vicious circles.
Anyway, I carefully chose the outfit and am certain no one can see. But I feel weird. I feel icky. I feel unnatural. I feel the need…
To do laundry!
Like now!
You may all be curious to know that I wear, what the French call, le thong. I have for a really long time. I wasn’t super quick to jump on this fashion miracle. After all, I grew up on a small island that had little use for such things. It’s possible that my friends wore them University but as we rarely discussed the “P” word and sure as hell did not “P”rance around in our knickers, I wouldn’t really have any idea. At any rate, no one extolled the virtues of le thong to me and, up until I started working for Club Med and had to dance around in a white unitard while playing the ever-so-sexy Jenny Annie Dots in our rendition of Cats, did the notion of wearing le thong so as to remove those unsightly visible “P” word lines even enter into my mind.
Welcome to 1999 Bea.
Now, of course, I wouldn’t condescend to wear anything else. Oh sure, les thongs definitely took some getting used to but at the end of the day, they are just “P”lain more comfortable than anything else. You’ll imagine my horror of going into my unmentionable drawer this morning to discover that I was in desperate need to do laundry!
Ugh… and so I was forced to do the unthinkable.
Why I even still have a pair of granny “P” word thingies is quite beyond me. In fact, I have several. I can’t remember the last time they were worn, if ever. My brain has a theory that my Mom bought them for me once upon a time and I never got around to throwing them out. I must say I am thankful for them today though… While I have no problem going commando when the occasion calls for it… A workday in the middle of winter is definitely not that occasion.
But it wasn’t as simple as just putting them on and beginning my day. I had to be very careful that the outfit I wore was such that any VPL would not be detectable to the unaided eye. I am shamelessly critical when I see VPLs on women (“tsk, tsk, in this day and age… UNACCEPTABLE”). On men? Well, really and truly there is no excuse… it causes me to go down a road that I really don’t want to go down. For when I see a man’s tighty whities visible under his trousers, I can’t help but visualize this person in all their unde-roo glory. Sadly, the type of fellow generally still wearing these types of undergarments is exactly the kind of guy who you really have no interest in imagining in their undies… It’s the most vicious of vicious circles.
Anyway, I carefully chose the outfit and am certain no one can see. But I feel weird. I feel icky. I feel unnatural. I feel the need…
To do laundry!
Like now!
Thursday
Baby It's Cold Outside
Today it is cold in Toronto. Like retarded cold for the end of February. So cold that my stylish red Team Canada jacket actually froze and made the oddest crinkling sounds when I moved. I thought my hood would crack off. Not the best day to wear only a skirt and tights (a top too… obviously).
I entered the building this morning right behind a woman in a very fancy fur coat such that only a very wealthy woman would dare to wear/ could afford. Quite frankly, I am not a fan of fur coats, or fur in general… I could say that it’s due to some sort of ethics or morals on my part but let’s be honest… I eat meat… I wear cows on my feet… I would be an uber hypocrite if I were to rant about the evils of fur. No folks, I just plain think that fur is ugly. Don’t see the appeal and I never have.
So I did look at the coat with a bit if distain because it was quite god awful in my estimation, though it looked to be about the warmest thing on the planet at that moment.
And then I chanced to look at this woman’s head. On top of said head was perched one of the most ridiculous things I have ever seen. So silly that I forgot all about the ugly fur coat and chuckled to myself while waiting for the elevator. For while this woman was wearing what looked to be a $10,000 fur coat (at least… although what the hell do I know...), she was wearing a “Budget Rent-a-Car” toque on top of her head.
But this was no ordinary and run-of-the-mill toque folks… this thing had CLASS… brown and orange, grey, white and blue… it had BUDGET-RENT-A-CAR boldly emblazoned around the forehead. As an added touch, it also had the world’s largest pompom affixed to the top. It was brilliant. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ensemble.
And as she was getting off on the 4th floor. The three of us left in the elevator broke out into laughter… no words needed to be said. We shared that moment together… all three of us. And the toque.
Brrr
I entered the building this morning right behind a woman in a very fancy fur coat such that only a very wealthy woman would dare to wear/ could afford. Quite frankly, I am not a fan of fur coats, or fur in general… I could say that it’s due to some sort of ethics or morals on my part but let’s be honest… I eat meat… I wear cows on my feet… I would be an uber hypocrite if I were to rant about the evils of fur. No folks, I just plain think that fur is ugly. Don’t see the appeal and I never have.
So I did look at the coat with a bit if distain because it was quite god awful in my estimation, though it looked to be about the warmest thing on the planet at that moment.
And then I chanced to look at this woman’s head. On top of said head was perched one of the most ridiculous things I have ever seen. So silly that I forgot all about the ugly fur coat and chuckled to myself while waiting for the elevator. For while this woman was wearing what looked to be a $10,000 fur coat (at least… although what the hell do I know...), she was wearing a “Budget Rent-a-Car” toque on top of her head.
But this was no ordinary and run-of-the-mill toque folks… this thing had CLASS… brown and orange, grey, white and blue… it had BUDGET-RENT-A-CAR boldly emblazoned around the forehead. As an added touch, it also had the world’s largest pompom affixed to the top. It was brilliant. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ensemble.
And as she was getting off on the 4th floor. The three of us left in the elevator broke out into laughter… no words needed to be said. We shared that moment together… all three of us. And the toque.
Brrr
Wednesday
The List That Will Never Cease to Grow
It occurred to me this morning, while I was most annoyed at having to use a can opener to open a new can of coffee, that it has been quite some time since I have done a “Things That Annoy Me List”. So without further adieu…
Beatrice Petty’s Things That Annoy Me
February 2008 Edition
1)Can openers. I use can openers very sparingly… Tuna for Devil Cat… which he sometimes doesn’t get if he’s run out the day before due to my abhorrence of the opener de can, which I can blame on the fact that over the course of the night he probably misbehaved at some point and with tuna being a privilege and not a right, it’s easy for me to justify (I understand that I need professional help)… Various cream soups for use in the new slow cooker… which always leads to the sudden appearance of the Devil Cat who associates a can opening with a treat for him.
2)The new girl who works next to me. I realize that I am one of those people who have little patience for others. I don’t like everyone… and even those who I do like I don’t like all the time. We have a bunch of new people who started earlier this year and because of that, needed to do a bit of office jostling. This saw me move my office space from my blessed dark little hole in the corner away from everyone, to a completely wide open cubby that is now shared with the new assistant of the boss that I never got along with. And my patience has long since evaporated with this woman.
If you missed it in a previous post, I quit my job a couple months back and am only here for another couple of weeks. But instead of taking stuff off my plate so that I can get my files organized and create this “manual of all the stuff in my brain that no one else knows how to do” (as was made evident when I took a week’s holiday in January and my department almost fell apart), I have more work then ever to do and sometimes feel so overwhelmed that I just want to cry. Since I gave notice, not a week has gone by where I haven’t said to myself “I would quit today if I had not already done so”. So… long story short. I is bizay.
The new girl? Not so busy. But very chatty. Mundane stuff I don’t care about in the slightest chatty. Also, she’s a ‘cold’ person, which I am sure anyone has come across before, or in fact, is one themselves. A ‘cold’ person is someone who is always cold in the office. But instead of layering up… ie. put a sweater on you daft cow… she insists on running a ceramic heater on high all day long. Unfortunately (for me), I am a ‘hot’ person who prefers to work in an environment slightly cooler than the lowest pits of hell. I also find the office to be dry even on the best of days so to be blasting our little space with hot dry heat for 8 hours straight = one perturbed (and dry and red-eyed) Bea.
But the latest and dare I say the straw that broke the alligator’s back? I came back to my desk and the 6” pile of mail that I had been conveniently storing in my mailbox until such a time as I saw fit to go through it/ throw it out before I left was sitting on my keyboard. I had barely enough time to think “WTF?” before Chatty Cathy proudly announced that she had been kind enough to bring me the mail from my mailbox. So NOW… I am left with a stack of mostly fax confirmations and a few other pieces of correspondence that I was choosing to ignore, cluttering up my already oh-so-very cluttered desk.
3)This shite cold that I have had for a week. I sound like a chain-smoking truck driver. Not a pretty sight.
4)Going to the movies and forgetting my Scene card. Do they have the Scene card in other parts of Canada/ the world? I am completely obsessed with my Scene card. For some reason I did not have Scene card when going to the movies last week with the old roomie and it put me in such a mood. I felt like I was cheating on my Scene card because how dare I go to a movie and not get points towards another? I was also very thirsty but couldn’t bring myself to purchase a beverage at full price. Sufficed to say I spent much of the duration of the movie dwelling on where my card was and hoping with all the hope in the universe that it was in a coat pocket somewhere instead of lost and never to be seen again. The latter would have been heartbreaking for I had enough points on it for two free movies… (btw, all is good. It was in the pocket of a coat I had worn to the last movie I saw. Crisis averted).
Now what else am I forgetting???
Beatrice Petty’s Things That Annoy Me
February 2008 Edition
1)Can openers. I use can openers very sparingly… Tuna for Devil Cat… which he sometimes doesn’t get if he’s run out the day before due to my abhorrence of the opener de can, which I can blame on the fact that over the course of the night he probably misbehaved at some point and with tuna being a privilege and not a right, it’s easy for me to justify (I understand that I need professional help)… Various cream soups for use in the new slow cooker… which always leads to the sudden appearance of the Devil Cat who associates a can opening with a treat for him.
2)The new girl who works next to me. I realize that I am one of those people who have little patience for others. I don’t like everyone… and even those who I do like I don’t like all the time. We have a bunch of new people who started earlier this year and because of that, needed to do a bit of office jostling. This saw me move my office space from my blessed dark little hole in the corner away from everyone, to a completely wide open cubby that is now shared with the new assistant of the boss that I never got along with. And my patience has long since evaporated with this woman.
If you missed it in a previous post, I quit my job a couple months back and am only here for another couple of weeks. But instead of taking stuff off my plate so that I can get my files organized and create this “manual of all the stuff in my brain that no one else knows how to do” (as was made evident when I took a week’s holiday in January and my department almost fell apart), I have more work then ever to do and sometimes feel so overwhelmed that I just want to cry. Since I gave notice, not a week has gone by where I haven’t said to myself “I would quit today if I had not already done so”. So… long story short. I is bizay.
The new girl? Not so busy. But very chatty. Mundane stuff I don’t care about in the slightest chatty. Also, she’s a ‘cold’ person, which I am sure anyone has come across before, or in fact, is one themselves. A ‘cold’ person is someone who is always cold in the office. But instead of layering up… ie. put a sweater on you daft cow… she insists on running a ceramic heater on high all day long. Unfortunately (for me), I am a ‘hot’ person who prefers to work in an environment slightly cooler than the lowest pits of hell. I also find the office to be dry even on the best of days so to be blasting our little space with hot dry heat for 8 hours straight = one perturbed (and dry and red-eyed) Bea.
But the latest and dare I say the straw that broke the alligator’s back? I came back to my desk and the 6” pile of mail that I had been conveniently storing in my mailbox until such a time as I saw fit to go through it/ throw it out before I left was sitting on my keyboard. I had barely enough time to think “WTF?” before Chatty Cathy proudly announced that she had been kind enough to bring me the mail from my mailbox. So NOW… I am left with a stack of mostly fax confirmations and a few other pieces of correspondence that I was choosing to ignore, cluttering up my already oh-so-very cluttered desk.
3)This shite cold that I have had for a week. I sound like a chain-smoking truck driver. Not a pretty sight.
4)Going to the movies and forgetting my Scene card. Do they have the Scene card in other parts of Canada/ the world? I am completely obsessed with my Scene card. For some reason I did not have Scene card when going to the movies last week with the old roomie and it put me in such a mood. I felt like I was cheating on my Scene card because how dare I go to a movie and not get points towards another? I was also very thirsty but couldn’t bring myself to purchase a beverage at full price. Sufficed to say I spent much of the duration of the movie dwelling on where my card was and hoping with all the hope in the universe that it was in a coat pocket somewhere instead of lost and never to be seen again. The latter would have been heartbreaking for I had enough points on it for two free movies… (btw, all is good. It was in the pocket of a coat I had worn to the last movie I saw. Crisis averted).
Now what else am I forgetting???
Thursday
Why is a Beer When it Spins???
Another birthday come and gone, though the fact that I can out drink a couple of alcoholic Englishmen is slightly disconcerting to me. And by slightly, of course, I mean yikes.
But here’s something curious… despite drinking my weight, and then some, in booze, I came home and just wasn’t quite ready to go to sleep. So up I stayed and watched some videos until 5am or so until I finally decided to hit the hay. When I woke up again to go potty, as I do pretty much every night because I have the worst bladder ever…
On a related albeit disgusting note, I feel that I need to share that I almost peed my bed the other week… I was having one of those dreams where you are going to the bathroom… and I REALLY had to go… so I finally found a bathroom though as usual, it offered little in the way of privacy… Why is it that the dreaming me who needs to go to the bathroom must always do so in a communal toilet, or one with a stall whose door is missing/ too short/ toilet backed up etc… But nature called and so I went and it was so relieving (no pun intended). Thankfully I am a light sleeper because I woke up just in the nick of time and disaster was averted. Can you remember the last time you peed a bed? I do. I was in university and it was my ex-boyfriend’s bed. I swear that I didn’t do it on purpose… just one of those things. I never did tell him.
Anyhoo… the rest of that story seems so stupid now that I went off on the pee pee tirade, so I will just end it by saying that I woke up early, like 8am early… and despite having had an entire keg of beer to myself, not to mention who knows how many shooters, I was wide awake and raring to go.
Cut to… Last night. After a very pleasant interview experience which I really, really hope I got, I was joined in my hood by the taller of the beer loving Brits who, I will admit that despite agreeing to be strictly platonic friends, I have a bit of a crush on. It’s quite manageable for the time being but we’ll see… so with that in mind, you may be interested to know that last night, he finally declared his love…
For my cat. I could be making way too much out of the whole thing but I am thinking that when the guy you have the teensiest crush on begins a sentence with “I love”, only to follow with “your cat”… It ain’t looking good in ye olde love department, unless you’re the cat.
So there we were having some pints. I only had three over the course of 4 hours. But despite that, I got drunk… had a somewhat early night, lots of water… 7 or so hours of sleep. And today? Well in no particular order…
1) Could NOT get out of bed this morning. No headache mind you, just could have slept several more hours, like, several.
2) My cat attacked me without warning from behind the curtains. Am thinking that if a certain tall Englishman loves the damn thing so much then he can have him!
3) I’m as bloated as… well, as something that’s really bloated. Am open to suggestions.
4) Our finance guy greeted me today with “Hi Bea. You look REALLY tired”.
5) Gas. Gassy. I have gas. I should be put in a quarantined room (with an open window please) so as not to offend anymore people.
6) 3 + 4 + 5 = :(
I guess what I am trying to say is…
Why?
But here’s something curious… despite drinking my weight, and then some, in booze, I came home and just wasn’t quite ready to go to sleep. So up I stayed and watched some videos until 5am or so until I finally decided to hit the hay. When I woke up again to go potty, as I do pretty much every night because I have the worst bladder ever…
On a related albeit disgusting note, I feel that I need to share that I almost peed my bed the other week… I was having one of those dreams where you are going to the bathroom… and I REALLY had to go… so I finally found a bathroom though as usual, it offered little in the way of privacy… Why is it that the dreaming me who needs to go to the bathroom must always do so in a communal toilet, or one with a stall whose door is missing/ too short/ toilet backed up etc… But nature called and so I went and it was so relieving (no pun intended). Thankfully I am a light sleeper because I woke up just in the nick of time and disaster was averted. Can you remember the last time you peed a bed? I do. I was in university and it was my ex-boyfriend’s bed. I swear that I didn’t do it on purpose… just one of those things. I never did tell him.
Anyhoo… the rest of that story seems so stupid now that I went off on the pee pee tirade, so I will just end it by saying that I woke up early, like 8am early… and despite having had an entire keg of beer to myself, not to mention who knows how many shooters, I was wide awake and raring to go.
Cut to… Last night. After a very pleasant interview experience which I really, really hope I got, I was joined in my hood by the taller of the beer loving Brits who, I will admit that despite agreeing to be strictly platonic friends, I have a bit of a crush on. It’s quite manageable for the time being but we’ll see… so with that in mind, you may be interested to know that last night, he finally declared his love…
For my cat. I could be making way too much out of the whole thing but I am thinking that when the guy you have the teensiest crush on begins a sentence with “I love”, only to follow with “your cat”… It ain’t looking good in ye olde love department, unless you’re the cat.
So there we were having some pints. I only had three over the course of 4 hours. But despite that, I got drunk… had a somewhat early night, lots of water… 7 or so hours of sleep. And today? Well in no particular order…
1) Could NOT get out of bed this morning. No headache mind you, just could have slept several more hours, like, several.
2) My cat attacked me without warning from behind the curtains. Am thinking that if a certain tall Englishman loves the damn thing so much then he can have him!
3) I’m as bloated as… well, as something that’s really bloated. Am open to suggestions.
4) Our finance guy greeted me today with “Hi Bea. You look REALLY tired”.
5) Gas. Gassy. I have gas. I should be put in a quarantined room (with an open window please) so as not to offend anymore people.
6) 3 + 4 + 5 = :(
I guess what I am trying to say is…
Why?
Friday
Holy Momma
The last 6 plus months have gone by like nothing. It seems like only yesterday that I was being dissed by a short, bald, old scottish man who had lived in Canada so long that he no longer had an accent. NO ACCENT??? What the eff was I thinking???
I was very upset about it too, for about a week. And then I remembered that I really only like tall guys with actual British accents and got over the whole thing quite quickly.
Yes, I am that superficial. Who knew???
Since then, my social life, life in general to be honest, has been somewhat unremarkable. I won't go into the mould poisoning that caused me to puff up like a bullfrog, but sufficed to say that I'm not dating at the mo'. Nor have I been for like EVER... but as I seem to only be not dating tall Englishmen, it's all good. Did that make sense? Surely not.
Blah, Blah, Blah... then Christmas at home for two weeks cooped up with the parents that almost had me go insane... Blah, Blah, Blah... quit my job last month with nary another prospect in sight... Became an overnight Guitar Hereo...yadda yadda yadda... Valentine's Day spent alone... tomorrow I will be in my mid-thirties... Badda Bing... Badda Boom. That pretty much brings us up to speed on the last 6 months. Seriously. Sad no?
I'd like to send a shout to the following... to Britney, for keeping me amused these past few months. To Rafa, for not trading my Crouchy during the January transfer window. To my Dad, for buying me a kickass Liverpool jersey for Christmas. To the former-Roomie who got married last year and became an aunt for the first time only yesterday (yaaaaaaaaaaay). To Wee who had a wee baby boy of her own (yaaaaaaaaaay). To the 6 feet of snow that has fallen this month (I LOVE SNOW!!!). To having the balls to finally take my life into my own hands. Last but not least, to Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza. To which I have been addictted to ever since they first came out with it and am about to order in about 2.5 seconds.
Birthday celebs tomorrow. Fingers crossed that I make past 9pm. Pray to the universe that no one offers up shooters!!!
Bea Out!
I was very upset about it too, for about a week. And then I remembered that I really only like tall guys with actual British accents and got over the whole thing quite quickly.
Yes, I am that superficial. Who knew???
Since then, my social life, life in general to be honest, has been somewhat unremarkable. I won't go into the mould poisoning that caused me to puff up like a bullfrog, but sufficed to say that I'm not dating at the mo'. Nor have I been for like EVER... but as I seem to only be not dating tall Englishmen, it's all good. Did that make sense? Surely not.
Blah, Blah, Blah... then Christmas at home for two weeks cooped up with the parents that almost had me go insane... Blah, Blah, Blah... quit my job last month with nary another prospect in sight... Became an overnight Guitar Hereo...yadda yadda yadda... Valentine's Day spent alone... tomorrow I will be in my mid-thirties... Badda Bing... Badda Boom. That pretty much brings us up to speed on the last 6 months. Seriously. Sad no?
I'd like to send a shout to the following... to Britney, for keeping me amused these past few months. To Rafa, for not trading my Crouchy during the January transfer window. To my Dad, for buying me a kickass Liverpool jersey for Christmas. To the former-Roomie who got married last year and became an aunt for the first time only yesterday (yaaaaaaaaaaay). To Wee who had a wee baby boy of her own (yaaaaaaaaaay). To the 6 feet of snow that has fallen this month (I LOVE SNOW!!!). To having the balls to finally take my life into my own hands. Last but not least, to Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza. To which I have been addictted to ever since they first came out with it and am about to order in about 2.5 seconds.
Birthday celebs tomorrow. Fingers crossed that I make past 9pm. Pray to the universe that no one offers up shooters!!!
Bea Out!
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?
Poof.
Gone.
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…
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?
Poof.
Gone.
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…
Monday
Tuesday
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...
Just an fyi...
Monday
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?
Thursday
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.
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.
Wednesday
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.
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.
Thursday
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.
NOT!
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…
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.
NOT!
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…
Sunday
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.
Next.
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.
Next.
Thursday
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…
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…
Monday
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?
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?
Thursday
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.
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