Tag Archives: yvr

Island, Round #2

When I finally gave up on “big city” me and moved back to Victoria I started doing the exact same thing I did in Vancouver… Making horrible decisions. While in Vancouver I would say “Tonight I’m going to play a game called Bad Decisions”. That phrase carried across the straight, packed neatly in my luggage and tucked in my brain like a … well, bad idea.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t go out and find one night stands, start twerking on strangers, or become addicted to meth or crack cocaine, I’m just a lowly sales girl after all, not a Mayor. I just didn’t care if I was rejected, I flirted with no sense of shame, and I talked to who I wanted, when I wanted.

Before I sunk to making another online dating profile I started flirting with the idea of meeting someone in “real life”.  Well, I met an array of unimportant players in my life. Read, they don’t matter anymore and barely left a blip on my radar. A few fun facts did come from them though, please be aware, these are awesome factoids:

  • It is possible to find a dust bunny the size of an actual bunny in some men’s homes. Not pleasant. If you can’t clean your house, what else aren’t you cleaning?
  • If someone calls you a conundrum, run away. Fast.
  • Men who play guitars are 61.8% more attractive. Always.
  • Boys like nail polish on your nails, it gives them something to look at other than your cleavage as you’re telling stories.
  • Dating someone who feels they need to ask your ex-boyfriend if they can date you is never a good idea. No more drama, mamas.
  • Drama is always invited in, rarely does she just show up and make herself at home uninvited.
  • Accountants are boring. Always.
  • If someone says they are a professional athlete, google them. If they’re not on google, it’s a lie.
  • If a man has a beard he is sexier. Always.
  • Always shave your legs, this is just a life fact. No reason behind it. But y’all should know shaving legs is not optional.
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December 22, 2013 · 5:42 PM

Good Advice…

image

I’ve acted in all these ways when angry with a man (except 5; yeah, I’ve contemplated it, but I wouldn’t survive in jail. I’d be made a bitch for sure and I only like to braid my friends hair. Plus, I’ve seen Orange is the New Black, so, nooo thank you). No wonder no one actually knows when a woman is mad… so many signals.

Hint, if you feel like you may have possibly done something wrong just say you’re sorry and tell us we’re pretty. Works like a charm. Unless you KNOW you did a wrong…. then, diamonds and vacations work.

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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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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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This is the story of: Shows Up Everywhere

When I lived in Vancouver I was on Plenty of Fish for about seven minutes, long enough for me to get tens of tens of messages and reply back and forth with ONE person a few times, before deactivating my account and cringing at the fact that I had stooped this low.

Please, let’s all remember that I am still “stooping” to this level and yes, I don’t make a mistake once or twice, I like to make it six or seven times, just to be sure. **SIDE BAR: this will become quite evident when we get to the story of Navy Guy** After not going on a single date for my first stint on POF, I moved on and tried to meet people the old fashioned way, through friends.

This is the story of: Shows Up Everywhere

Once I decided I’d had enough of POF (yes, seven minutes in), I decided I would try to reconnect with old friends that I hadn’t seen in awhile. We all know everyone has a token single friend (trust me, I AM that person) and I was certain a few of my friend’s token single friends, probably had single friends too. Yay for my logic. I imagined myself meeting tons of beautiful, kind men and playing ‘eeny, meeny, miny, mo’ to pick my favorite. That didn’t happen. Obviously, it is me after all.

A friend of mine (a male friend, bonus! Since dudes always know tons of dudes that don’t want to sleep with them, unlike female friends, who the hot and/or nice ones always want to sleep with) asked me to meet up for a drink, he was meeting up with some people from school and I was hella in for this potential jackpot of a scenario. We went and met at Earls in Yaletown and as we’re chatting and laughing and I’m making all the right moves aimed at the exactly one decent man in the crowd, in walks a familiar face. Why is he familiar? I don’t know yet.

Approximately fourteen minutes later, after racking my brain for why I would know this blonde haired (and attractive) man, it hits me in the face like a bad smell. It’s Shows Up Everywhere! He is the ONE person I talked to on POF in Vancouver and I disappeared on him, only to run into him less than a week later. As introductions are made, I’m thinking, “holy shit, holy fuck, this is weird” but nope, Shows Up Everywhere doesn’t even blink an eye, he takes it in stride. We chat most of the night and he eventually asks for my number. All the while I’m thinking “man, he sure is playing this up for his friends, he must not want people to know how we met”. (Obviously I had already spilled the beans to my buddy, and texted my roommate because, it’s funny and absolutely my luck and I like to share my misfortunes with others).

After the dinner, Shows Up Everywhere adds me to facebook (we all know and love facebook, don’t we?! Especially for the stalking capabilities). We chat on there, text a bit and then I kind of lose interest, because, well, he’s as boring as watching hay blow in the wind. But this is not the end of Shows Up Everywhere. No siree, I proceed to run into him on a monthly basis for six months. At a night club, at a park, at a beach, in a store, anywhere really and ALL over town. Not just in one part of the city, all the parts. I swear I saw him on the ferry once.

Shows Up Everywhere was the start of my interesting dating life in Vancouver. He opened the door for all my other Vancouver dating experiences, and they only got better from there. (Oh, by better I mean worse and more funny).

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This is the story of: Bartender

Everyone gets a nickname. Nobody gets called by their real name until they’ve been around long enough to not run away, or have me run from them (also known as; ignoring all communication until they get the point, and if that doesn’t work, blocking their number). For the sake of not ruining lives and their privacy (and me not getting spammed on facebook) I will only refer to men/boys/man-children by their nicknames. But hey, if you know this guy and see him on the street spit on him, or kick him, or just point and laugh (because not all them deserve to get spit on).

There have been so many short term dates, I’m not even certain I could tell you their last name, or their first for that matter (I would make a vailiant effort though). BUT, don’t count me out just yet, I can tell you their nickname, and the story of how utterly terrible our first date went. Or, in some cases, how the “situation” (as I like to call my dating experiences that last past date three) crashed and burned in a firey mess of tears and vodka.

Because I’m new at this blogging thing, and you’re new to my experiences in this catastrophe we call dating, I will start with a small, simple, life altering experience.

This is the story of: Bartender

Bartender and I met, duh, in a bar that he worked at. He told me he was the manager, but also a bartender. I was drunk and dressed ghetto fabulously (we were at a reggae club after all). We flirted. He was handsome. I was coy. He touched my hand. I asked for singles. He gave me doubles. And then at the end of the night I said, and this is ballsy of me people, I said… “So you going to ask for my number or not?” he said no. True story.

This isn’t the end of the story though. He then stopped, I could actually see the wheels turning in his head, and he said “yes, actually, yes I am. I want that number”. So, I wrote my number out on a chit (that piece of paper that comes out of the machine at the bar… not important) and left the bar. TWO HOURS later he writes me, he comes over, my roommate, Bartender and I sit up for a few hours chatting, he leaves and says “I will call you tomorrow”.

People, he ACTUALLY called me. The. Very. Next. Day. I was floored. Here was this handsome, quiet, and funny man, and he actually called me back. (Remember folks, I am new to the dating scene after four years of domestic bliss, and this isn’t what Cosmo told me to expect). Anyways, he called me. We talked. We flirted. We made plans to walk his dog.

We ended up cancelling the dog walking plans because I went out of town, but Bartender and I proceeded to see each other every Wednesday (when I went to his club) and the odd other night for almost three months. It was casual, but I liked him and he liked me and even pointed out that I had freckles (something I didn’t even realize). Ladies, we all know those cute things win us over. No judging.

Long story longer, I went to his club one night and was chillin with some new “friends”, when one girl asked how I knew Bartender. I replied with “oh, we just met here and chill every so often”. (Keep in mind, I’m playing it cool, I’ve met his friends, gone for dinners, seen him outside of the club scene, text him daily, talk to him on the phone, oh so many things), That’s when this rando replies “sweet, so you must know his fiance”.

YUP. FIANCE. Being the utterly fantastic liar I am (only to strangers though, don’t fret family or friends who are reading this, you know my tell), I reply “no, I haven’t met her, she doesn’t come out very often, work or something” and continue to have a casual chat with her for a few more minutes, before changing the subject and casually sauntering off…

Yes, Bartender turned out to have a long term, live in girlfriend. Not yet engaged, but they probably are by now. I wish them years of happiness and no herpes… at least for her. She is probably a lovely woman.

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