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Friday Night Fun

Fast forward to the present day and you will find me, still fabulous, still funny, and still soul wrenchingly single. The single life is great, I won’t mess with you. Doing whatever I want, whenever I want is pretty amazing. Except for when what I really want to do is lay on the couch with a man who is in lottle with me, start a new season of some crap show (I hear Orange is the New Black is pretty decent), and have my hair played with. Those are the kinds of things that you don’t get to do when you’re single. (I just pictured myself wrapped up with one of those ‘boyfriend’ pillows watching tv while playing with my own hair. Please laugh with me, not at me. Should I ever sink to this level, I will cry and someone slap me, please).

I know today’s date shows up on these posts, but just because I feel I need to be dramatic… It’s a foggy Friday night, in the middle of October. Did I go out dancing with the girls? Nope. Did I carve pumpkins with a boy and watch scary movies? HA! Did I take in comedy night at Hecklers? Nein. Did I volunteer at the SPCA and play with puppies all night? I wish! Did I drink wine and read a good book while listening to jazz music? Not even close. I ate an entire small Veggie Mediterranean pizza with two dippers to myself. While watching Law & Order: SVU. #winning. None of those three things separately bother me. Friday, awesome; Pizza, super awesome; and if you don’t like Law & Order: SVU you’re lying to yourself. But combined, they make me feel like I should rescue a cat or seven.

I’m not lonely, and rarely am I ‘alone’. I don’t get much down time, working seventy-ish hours a week, so when I do and end up watching tv (on a laptop because I don’t have cable), in flamingo print pajamas, eating 3.2 pounds of pizza (I weighed myself before and after) for six hours, a girl starts to wonder about herself.

All of us poor single folk get the “single funk” every now and again. Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is. For anyone who is lying to themselves or who has been in a relationship too long to remember: this is when we hate being single and curse the opposite sex, ourselves, our parents, our city, the weatherman, that dog that didn’t lick your hand because he clearly smelled your desperation, or basically anyone or anything that is in our way. I, thankfully, haven’t had a moment like this in a while. I hope I’m not due. They never go well and I definitely always write an ex or two. Yay me! (That was sarcasm).

Tonight is not the night for me to have a single person funk. I love life. I love that I get to go to bed and fall asleep in the middle of my bed; I love that I ate an entire pizza and didn’t have to share; I love that I don’t have to worry what my breath will smell like in the morning; I love that should I have an insomnia attack in a few hours, I don’t have to worry about waking anyone up with the lights on; I love that tomorrow, when I finally wake up (on my own schedule), I get to do whatever the eff bomb I want to (until my PT appointment at noon, then that meathead gets to boss me around). I think the important thing is that I love MY life… I just hate dating.

Lesson’s learned tonight: Munch retired , you will gain over three pounds from eating an entire small pizza, my pajamas are too big (in spite of said pizza eating), I can go an entire Friday without wearing a bra or drinking alcohol, there is such a thing as the ‘boyfriend’ pillow (see below), and it is completely possible to be in bed before midnight on a Friday.

 

The-boyfriend-pillow

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Way Back Whenesday

Oh stories. This story is about a boy I never dated. He probably dated me though. That’s the kind of story this is. I don’t have a nickname for him, because well, we never dated. We will call him Nintendo Boy, because I feel like it is fitting. 

Nintendo Boy and I worked together (at, surprise, the same electronics store I worked with Fat Not Fat at). Nintendo Boy and I got along real well. He was funny, self deprecating and gay (or so I thought). He had great work ethic (read, he always covered for me) and always helped me when any sort of electronic device I had broke. He was a hacker of sorts and a genius with electronics. 

One day my roommate was a whoreibble person and gave me three days notice on moving out of our place. I NEEDED a roommate, I was spending all my money on alcohol and more alcohol that I was eating ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and supper. I was a real winner when I was 19, no judgement because we’ve all lived off of bread and noodles at one time or another. Priorities. So I clearly couldn’t afford rent on my own and I was stuck in Victoria for another two months while I went to University. Nintendo Boy heard of my woes and offered to move in.

And move in he did. He brought his 15+ pound cat, his bunk bed, his four tv’s, his lazer collection, his star wars and star trek collections, he brought more movies than I have books (which is a lot) and he brought an awesome kettle. Everything went great for about thirteen days. Nintendo Boy stated making comments about me inviting my hot friends over to sun tan on the deck so he could tell all of his friends that there are naked girls in his apartment. This alone I could have dealt with. What I didn’t deal with is a love letter.

Just a little info, I had recently broken up with (been cheated on and humiliated by my first love) a few weeks after my See You Next Tuesday of a roommate moved out and Nintendo Boy moved in. Being on the averagely mature side of 19, one night I brought home a male friend that I had been seeing. This part isn’t not true, I saw him. I saw him at parties. I saw him at his hockey games. I saw him in the mall once. Anyways, he came over while Nintendo Boy was sleeping. Rich and Handsome and I hung out, chilled, bow chicka wow wow, and then went to sleep. I woke up the next day and went to get some hydration and saw a note on my door. I took it down and walked with it to the kitchen where I read it.

Nintendo Boy confessed his undying love for me. He even said he would make me his princess if I would consider him as a possibility. Talk about awkward. I thought the kid was gay and let him take saucy pictures of me for my ex. Needless to say I forgot about getting water and ran back to my bedroom and began packing. I already knew I was leaving in three weeks but I packed so fast and dropped all my shifts for two weeks and moved home without even acknowledging the letter. I think I managed to avoid Nintendo Boy in our apartment and at work even. I’m not proud of the way I handled his one sided love but can’t get stuck on the past. Plus, he got a new roommate and has a girlfriend now and is super successful. He won that one. 

 

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This is the story of: The Child

While living in Vancouver, I was traveling over to the island frequently. Not only because I missed my friends, I was seeing a guy over here for about a month, oh and was in a wedding, so had all that shit to do. Anyways, this is not a story about the guy I was seeing (you will hear about him in a Way Back Whenesday story). This is the story of The Child. I met The Child the night before Canada Day. I had come over to Victoria to hang out with friends, drink beer, eat burgers, watch the fireworks and play. That didn’t happen. Well, it did, only it was drink-a-litre-and-a half-of-wine-and-stumble-into-town-and-lie-about-your-entire-life kind of trip. I’m a real class act.

Two of my girlfriends and I headed into town (to Darcy’s of course – shameless plug, Darcy’s is the tits, the bee’s knees, the cheese to by bread, the vodka to my water, if you’re ever in Victoria check it out). I went down town all kinds of dressed up (short skirt, mesh top, long fake ass extensions cascading down my back, a real sight for sore eyes, if I do say so myself). I was super wasted. Like, white girl wasted, when said white girl was in high school and doing shots of straight Bacardi, chased by a sip from a two litre of Pepsi. That kind of night. I had a great time. Or so it seems from the photos.

The next day (Canada Day, remember) was not such a great day. I laid in my friend (and her bfs) bed allllll day, until I moved to the couch where I remained for most of the day light hours, while they drank beer, ate burgers, played games, etc.  Early on in the day, while I’m contemplating how I’m ever going to survive this hangover, my blackberry bings with a message (at 9am for fucks sake). Some random dude standing next to the Darth Vadar fiddler asks me how I am. Da Fuq? I yell out to my home girl “who the fuck did I meet last night!?”, then I barfed. According to my friend, I met a handsome, tall, 22 year old `Olympic lifter` and we really hit it off. My girl has high standards and a stronger liver than I, so I took her word for it and chatted with The Child.

I know you’re thinking it’s pretty bad that this guy is 22 and I’m 26… turns out I told him I was 24… and a teacher. I found this out when he asked me when school started and I lol’d and told him I graduated university many moons ago. This brought up a whole conversation about how I lied about my age and my occupation (and probably my name in the beginning… I always go in with a fake name, you’ve gotta earn the real name people). Anyhoo, The Child and I bbm back and forth for a couple weeks, never adding each other to Facebook (I’ve learned this is always a red flag) but Skyping when his roommates were out. Turns out… when he said roommates, he meant parents. And when he said 24 he meant 19. As in, just turned 19 a few days before I met him. By the time I found out about The Child and his situation (unable to drink in the US, or pay rent on his own, as he had no real job) we’d been talking for over a month. I thought I could maybe try to hang out with him and it would be fine. It wasn’t. It really, really, wasn’t. When we first hung out and he said “my parents are out if you’d like to come over?” I cringed. Then he admitted he rarely if at all drank. Then his 19 year old slang came out for show, and I hate slang. But what really shut the nursery door for me was when we hung out the second time (yes, I gave it more than one try… look at me being stupid and shit) I actually asked “do your parents know you’re out this late?”. We looked at each other… I cringed. He smiled. I told him I was tired. He asked if he could stay. I said I had to be up early. He drove home (in his Mom’s car). I cringed, again. He wrote me the next day. And the next. And the next. I finally told him I was ignoring him and that we were never going to happen. Then I ran into him a couple weeks later and did the awkward turn around and duck maneuver. And that was the end of The Child. I think he has graduated high school by now and is probably traveling on Mommy and Daddy’s dollar. Oh well, he had biceps for days.

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This is the story of: The Cop

The cop was a nice man. He was great. He was also a musician (which is a turn on) and a cop to boot. I do love me a man in uniform (take note single fellas – as I’m sure there are sooo many of you uniformed up men reading my blog, naht). We were set up by a coworker of mine (same one who set me up with Mix Cd Guy, only she swore this guy was awesome and admitted she didn’t really know Mix CD Guy all that well, you don’t say!). The best part of the date with The Cop wasn’t what happened on the date, it is what happened before the date. And by best part, I mean worst, obviously.

I’m a big advocate of sleep. And naps. Naps are great. I nap as often as humanly possible. So, I decided to nap before my date with The Cop. When I woke up it was with a jolt, not because my alarm went off, I forgot to set that, but because when I opened my eyes, it was absolutely black outside my window. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my phone and ran to the bathroom. I had exactly 27 minutes to eat and get ready for my date. Being that I have curly hair and straighten it most days and had just napped on it for three hours, I needed to redo it. So I plugged in the straightener and ran to grab whatever food I could get my hands on (I believe it was two cookies, a banana and orange juice, yay me). When I literally ran back to the bathroom to do my hair, I grabbed the straightener and a chunk of hair and… got my face. Yup. I burnt myself on the cheek, severely. I just held that straightener directly against my cheek, not even noticing that I had a chunk of gray skin hanging off my right cheek. Obviously, I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT!! And just as I am gawking at my burnt skin, thinking about crying, feeling adrenaline rushing through my entire body, and realizing there is a very real  possibility of a lifelong scar, The Cop texts me to say he’s running about thirty minutes late. Perfect. I put ice on my wound and do my makeup (around the gross gray chunk of face I now have) and figure that if The Cop turns out to be weird or boring, I can go for shock factor and say it’s a gang related incident.

He wasn’t boring (I have yet to use a gang related injury to shock a date, sad face). He was nice. No spark and not my type, but a nice guy. A little curious about my burn though. Being that I used to be a super nervous dater, I think he thought I was lying about how I got my burn… oh well. The Cop and I kept in touch and occasionally still talk. Before I left the big city, he even tried to set me up with someone, but the guys name was Prince and that shit ain’t cool. By the way, my face completely healed and I have no scar. Thank you genetics.

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Why, You Ask?

image

I do this exact facial expression/hand motion combo when asked “why/how are you still single”. I manage to look only marginally less cute than this small human, too. So, why am I single you ask? Beats me asshole, I’m picky.

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Way Back Whenesday

I’ve had a few requests for “throwback” dating stories. By throwback, I mean long before D and the googling incident. These stories consist of my dating scaries and stories from before my “long term” boyfriend. These ones are old, like my unfertilized eggs.

Fat Not Fat and I worked together. Kind of. I worked  for an electronics company and as such, you would imagine there would be no attractive people. But there were. Myself and a couple girl friends of mine were the exceptions to the ‘no hot girls work in electronics’ hype and there were even some good looking male specimens (the really odd ducks were my favorite though, I learned so much about shit I don’t care about there). I’d worked at this establishment for a while when Fat Not Fat got hired. He was a nice looking fellow. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, he was funny and quick witted (if not a little dim in other areas of life), just my style at the time.

Fat Not Fat was friends with someone who I worked with. I actually have no idea who this person was, as the memory is that old. I think it was a dude, may have been a girl, or talking dog… but the  memory of Fat Not Fat, and the conversation that follows is as clear as breakfast this morning (coffee and a vitamin B supplement). One day said unknown coworker said “hey, Fat Not Fat thinks you’re hot and wants to ask you out” and I replied (in front of the entire staff room full of lunch eaters) “eww, no he’s fat”. Tact was not a strong suit of mine and I was really shallow then (shut up). Everyone stopped eating and stared at me. One of my good friends was in the room at the time and can attest to this… the response I got was “he’s not fat, he’s got huge muscles.” Turns out, that was a fact. And Fat Not Fat heard about what I said and still wanted to hang out with me. So we hung out. It wasn’t great, it wasn’t terrible. We hung out mainly in a group of other coworkers, drinking and dancing. It was a typical 19 year old style of dating.  The moral of the story is, not everyone who looks fat, is fat. The shirt may be unflattering and hiding large biceps. The end.

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This is the story of: Doctor

Doctor. Now, this story sounds like it would be promising, considering I met a Doctor… but… it’s me. We met at a night club. Yup, is anyone else sensing a theme with this phase of my life? It didn’t matter if I was dead exhausted, sick, crampy, or injured, you mention the words “night club” and my response was “yes, please” as I held out my cup to be filled with vodka. Anyways, I was at one of my favorite places in Vancouver and (this is all a bit hazy in my own mind, but I got the details from Doctor and my girl friends) I was walking down the stairs from the upper dance floor to the lower and was ‘beckoned’ to by a handsome man. He asked my name, I told him Mercedes (because ain’t nobody giving out their real name at a night club to a posse of men), he asked my number, I gave him a fake. He immediately texted me and asked me to check my phone. Caught. After we laughed about it and he assured me he was a nice man, I gave him my real name (not even close to Mercedes) and number and then danced away in the crowd to drink vodka waters and shake my hips to some music.

I heard from Doctor the next day (men in Vancouver seem to be rather keen on the contacting front, which is more than fine by me). We made a plan to go out for drinks (after swapping facebook information, I needed to refresh my memory after all the vodka). He picked me up at my ‘house’ (in reality it was a block over and down from my house, can’t be too safe people!) and he was in a Lexus. Excuse me!? We made small talk on our way to some Russian vodka pub (turns out he’s Russian and reallllly likes the Vodka, if you can pick up where I’m going with this, good for you). We went to this pub and had a drink and small talk. All was good , except his weird ass accent. Then we went to another pub where he plays guitar sometimes. So here I am on a date with a DOCTOR who PLAYS THE GUITAR and I’m kind of proud of drunk me, she’s really redeeming herself to sober me. *Side bar: Drunk me had made out with a dude with a massive unibrow quite recently before this* Doctor and I have another drink, then he has another, and another, and yet, another. Then he gets up to play another tune on the ole guitar (one he wrote, nbd) and he chips his tooth on the microphone. No lie. Chips his mother effin front tooth because he is so wastey pants. I would give him props for finishing the song, but he didn`t know he chipped his tooth until I pointed it out. To say the least, I got in a cab and went home. Doctor and I texted a bit for a while after that (I had to make sure he got his tooth fixed). After the appropriate amount of time I stopped responding to his texts.

To end this story, I will let you all know that Doctor texted me on my birthday (five months after we initially met), so he gets props for that (I’m choosing to view it as sweet and not creepy). I still think of him every time I think of the disease that killed Bob Marley.

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