If it walks like a Duck, and Talks like a Duck, then it is definitely a Slut!

Soooo… do I have story for you.  And for once, it does not involve something stupid that I did.  I was just an observer.  I was at a work Christmas party at a manager’s house last Thursday.  Eight people were there, all with the idea of snow tubing and then dinner and drinks at the family table.  He even arranged to have his wife take his small children out.  Well, I am sure he did not anticipate what happened next.  One tiny little Japanese girl, let’s call her Ducky, at 6pm began giving a guy (a work colleague, no less) a 6 hour lap dance, first in the living room, then at the family dining room table.  Oh, and she is not cute, and he was not happy.  I know what you are thinking: what guy does not want a 6 hour lap dance?  A guy who does not want to get an erection in front of his boss at the family dining room table!  Therefore, passive aggressively he kept moving her, giving her time outs, switching chairs, etc.  She was basically trying to rape him sitting beside their boss.  It was awkwardly fantastic!  Anyways, Buddy is now a bottle of rum in and I guess decides after having his balls bounced on for the last 4 hours that he was going to get something out of it.  They go down into the carport (sooo high school) where she drops to her knees.  Enough said… until their boss goes to investigate why there is a draft and notices the carport door ajar, opens it, and is standing face to face with Buddy and Ducky sucking on his balls.  Seriously!!! But that isn’t even the worse part.  After THAT, they’re back upstairs and he is still running away because it is just plain annoying at this point.  She gets on his lap again, and the rest of us are now ignoring this, basically throwing Buddy to the wolves. Seriously he needed to be mean at this point.  They are sitting beside me, the rest of us are playing cards and she starts panting… sorry moaning. SERIOUSLY!!! His finger was in her POOPER, sitting right beside me.

The beauty of this all is this girl has been with the firm for about 3 years and I never really talked to her because I am judgmental and decided the moment I saw her that she was a bit suspect.  I have totally received grief for it and have been told I need to give her a chance despite appearances. But Thursday I was vindicated, because if it talks like a duck, walks like a duck then it is definitely a slut!!!  I wonder if she was applying for a new job over the weekend?

The unfortunate thing is I have been to many a party where I have seen women embarrass themselves by throwing themselves at men and getting rejected.  But I have never seen it for 6 hours straight.  I’m sure Buddy’ balls had some chaffing on them the next day from all that activity.  Rumour has it he also had to have the cab pull over at a gas station in order to wash his hands because they smelled like fecal matter. How do you go back to the office after that? I wonder how many career changes have been prompted by the office Christmas party…

It is an unfortunate thing being a woman in a male dominated office, this example aside, because male or female this would reflect badly.  But there is definitely a dominant view that is taken.  For example, at this party there was a smoking hot 23 year old boy that was just hired.  If I had taken him down in my cougardom, he would be getting props right now from the other boys for conquering something that has been off-limits since day one to the rest of them.  Yes, the one rule that I have not shattered along my path of exploits is to not dip your pen in the office ink… that and my “me first” rule in the bedroom.  However, if the situation was reversed and the gender roles reversed, the older being male and the younger being female, the props would also go to the man for showing the new girl the ropes, as they all pat themselves on the back.  The double standard is still there at the office despite our ability to sell and add just as well as the boys.  But they have come up with a reason for that as well.  I love when my Regional Director actually thinks it is a compliment to say, “You know the women who make it in this business are the ones that act like men.” Yes kids, he means this as a compliment.  And it certainly does not help when girls like Ducky behave as she did on Thursday night.

I suppose I shouldn’t be so hard on her because she singlehandedly brought down the curve when it comes to self-respect.  I really thought I was the lowest girl on the totem pole as I sat there in Vegas watching porn half naked with a room full of boys I had just met while still staining the sheets (see blog entry from X date).  But no, Ducky has vindicated me.  On second thought, maybe I should lobby to keep her around, purely for self-esteem reasons of course!

My PRIDE has been CURBED!

November, oh November! You were supposed to be better than October, but alas, all you have brought me are men that look like douche-bags with their Mo competition, which has become more about proving their manhood than about actually raising money for the cause. Oh and yes it has also delivered me EPIC FAILURE!

If there is a lesson that was finally drilled into my head in November it was this: humility.  Scrap that. It wasn’t drilled, but curbed into me. Actually, I think it was my pride that was curbed. Professionally speaking, 2011 has been a catastrophe: first the $10,000 charge-back in January, then being sued and finally the cherry on top of the crappy cake that has become my life, I lost my biggest client on Thursday.  You know what, 2011? IT IS ENOUGH! I’ve been kicked out of my house, estranged from a family member, forced to share a bed with my mother for the better part of half a year – and NOW THIS!!! You know what life is – it is a big old douche-bag!

Part of me thinks the professional defeat has been my most crushing failure because what else do I have?  I am 32 years old, roommates with my mother, with not a man in sight, and I rent. I don’t even own a car anymore. I am on the peasant wagon (aka the bus) where 3 out of 5 mornings there is a serial farter. By the time I get to my ass job, my hair actually smells like that -  ass.  Oh the irony of it all. It is not like I want to be married with 2 kids and a mortgage right now; however, my profession was something that I relied on to define me.  I look at my friends and see their successes and think, wow, they are so much further along in life than I am. But then I think to myself that I have built a profitable business (well, not this year – thanks again 2011) from the ground up.  However, this year I failed at that as well.  And to be honest, it is humiliating and devastating.

Last Thursday I was crushed when I lost my biggest client. I reached out to a few of these professional successful people who to be honest I assumed would have little idea of the pain I was in because they were so much further ahead in the game of life.  It is surprising what you discover when you actually open up and talk to people about things that have gone wrong in work.  I discovered I was not alone.  Lucy, with her strong will, determination and intellect, revealed that she had lost three cases in a row once.  She was she told by a partner “there are winners and there are losers, and when you lose four in a row, you are a loser.”  I’m sure that did wonders for her self-esteem as she thought “One more to go”.  I would have never known.  My most shocking conversation was with my buddy Gurpreet.  The man is one of the best ambulance chasers in the city.  He fights, he battles, he wins – and when I called him crushed on Thursday he shared his stories of lost cases and clashes with clients. I believed failure was a myth to this guy!  All this got me thinking that perhaps my idea of failure may be a bit perverse.  Lucy and Gurpreet are extremely successful people in my eyes and even this new information about their setbacks didn’t change my opinion of them.

I had worked my ass off for this client. I had the relationship and offered a good product, but in the end, their business went elsewhere.  It got me asking why have I decided to be in business for myself?  To be a professional with pressure?  It is not all about the money, although, yes that is nice (when I make it). But I could be a postal worker and make $80,000 a year to sort mail.  I wouldn’t have to worry about RSPs because my pension would be sick. I could have massage therapy paid for through my group plan. Heck, I wouldn’t even have to buy work clothes – they provide a uniform.  Lucy posed the million dollar question to me one day: “Why can’t we just be simpletons?”  You know the simpleton mentality: government should take responsibility for something you could do on your own, your world view is what your ‘friends’ post on Facebook and what the Kardashians are wearing this week.  This describes my father – he doesn’t work, has lived off my mother for the last 13 years and yet he believes he is supporting her.  He does the same thing every day – for an unemployed man his schedule of gym, eating, drinking and napping is pretty inflexible.  But my point is that the man has it made. He seems content.   The reason he never fails is because he never tries, but it’s working for him, so he’s content with his life.  Why can’t that be me? There was a day when both my parents quit trying to get ahead in life and just exist. They had a rental property with friends of theirs that went sideways, ending the friendship and leaving my Dad blaming my Mom for the next 30 years for the failure. From that point on, my Mom quit making decisions for herself out of fear of failure and being ridiculed, of having this event hung over her head every meal, every conversation.   That is why when I think about just existing and not trying – living the simpleton lifestyle – I just cannot do it, because to me wasting the potential to live is the saddest thing ever.

In retrospect, I may have been giving 2011 too rough of a time.  It has blessed me with an epic SUCCESS – the opportunity to remove my father from my life swiftly and fairly painlessly because he thinks he is not speaking to me, which I am sure he isn’t – if I saw the man in the street (a massive fear by the way) I am sure he would walk right by me.  2011 has given both me and my mother freedom – the freedom to fail without ridicule and blame, but also to succeed with support and love. I no longer have this fear that hangs over me which resulted in me not trying unless I knew I could perform perfectly, because the consequence of failure was too much to bare.  It is impossible to move forward and learn in life this way.   With this last failure, I tried and put my best foot forward, and while I still lost, what I got on the other side was support and love from those around me.  As they say, the winner is the one who falls off the horse 7 times and gets back on the 8^th.  Lincoln, arguably the most famous and one of the most influential American president to date, declared bankruptcy, lost countless elections and was seen by some as an epic failure. But he never quit trying and look now at what he was able to accomplish and where he sits in the history books: he redefined a nation. I am not saying I will ever have that kind of influence, but if I fall off the horse and continually get back on, then it is always an option.  Last month when I went into see my doctor about my depression he asked me if I had had any suicidal thoughts, and I laughed, responding “Uhh, yeah, that’s why I’m here!”  He looked at me startled, asking how I could say that and laugh.  I guess the reason was that I didn’t feel like jumping off the bridge at that moment.  You have to be able to look back at your failures and laugh, or you won’t be able to move on.  That is why on Monday morning I didn’t dwell on the nail in the coffin of my professional goals for 2011. Instead I woke up, put on my suit and a smile, swallowed my mood altering drugs, listened to the words of Rocky Balboa and got on the bus to work, because to fail and never stop is to succeed.

Ah Horse Tranquilizers!

Sitting at coffee the other day with yet another one of my gorgeous single friends, we began discussing our weekend.  Going out with friends, great restaurants, entertaining night life, but despite all this we confessed that we found it all quite pointless.  Despite the fact that we had a nice time, it did not make us happy. After blowing a couple hundred dollars, both of us woke up hungover and feeling like crap. In our twenties, nights out were worth the hangover and the abuse to the wallet, but now in our thirties, I could have just as easily sat on my couch with my mother and watched old 80s movies.  Before this conversation I figured, maybe it was just me.  Maybe I make my life too difficult?  Maybe my expectations are too high?  Is it because I lived my twenties to the max and now everything else seems like a letdown?  Did I take a wrong turn someplace and that is why I am on this never-ending road of apathy and what can only be described as drudgery? 

It feels as though I have been treading water for a very long time and it is starting to get tiring.  What is worse is I feel as though I am beginning to sink.  I spent last week at work fighting to keep a contract I had already closed, simply because of ignorance and a misconception. So I basically spent all my time not making a dime and trying to keep the few I had already earned.  And still, we will see what Monday brings in terms of retaining my meager wealth.  This is just a small example of what life has been like.  A series of irritating occurrences that aren’t necessarily moving me backwards, but are definitely not aiding in moving me forward.

I’ve begun to reach for straws. I read my horoscope religiously now and cling to believing when it says things are going to change and my life will move forward. I was especially hopeful when it alluded to a contract being settled.  I have been working on a case for a year that would be the biggest single success of my career, yet like my life, it too is stagnating.  It feels like sitting at the red light in the intersection ready to make a move, yet the light is not turning green.  In the end - horoscopes SUCK!  They are totally inaccurate… well, partly.  They are like predicting the weather in Vancouver – the predictions are only right when it is raining.  Weathermen go to school for this?  The only time my horoscope has an ounce of accuracy is when it says my life will be tough.  Duh!  Didya go to school for that too?!  I’ve started to turn around and around in my head why things seem to be stalled. You know these thoughts: maybe it is not meant to be and in hindsight I will be thankful I did not get my wish.  Or my favorite: work hard and life will unfold as it should.  But what if this is all bullshit and this is just life?  Maybe these are just things we convince yourselves of because we need some excuse for why our lives are stuck in neutral.

Well, three weeks ago these thoughts were proving problematic. It was not a good day.  You could say it was an awful day.  Let’s put it this way:  the Second Narrows bridge seemed like a very feasible option. This coincidently might be the reason why I am now medicated. I assume my doctor thought my new home being so close in proximity to the Second Narrows bridge was a bit of a health risk!  Clinical depression runs in the family and explains a lot about my father’s behavior – except he’s decided to treat it with alcohol and cruelty towards his family.  So now instead of wishing to not wake up in the morning, I wish that when I wake up, my life will magically be better.  Some may call this progress, but it depends on your perspective.  One bonus of what I have determined are horse tranquillizers is for two weeks I was high as a kite! With no munchies!  It was kinda fun, except that I lost my car three times in the haze.  But again, I was stoned and therefore not really bothered by it!

Depression is a difficult thing to understand by those who are able to grasp logic on their bad days.  Everyone gets sad and deals with crap, and I am not saying that other people’s lives are not in the same situation as mine; however, they have the ability to keep perspective.  A person with clinical depression cannot.  Most people think that crazy pills will make you happy.  In fact, all they really do is prevent you from hitting those severe lows.  When I reveal how I feel about my life, people are often shocked.  I am not lonely, I have amazing friends, I’m outgoing and I can appear to be functional.  If I list the amazing people and support I have in my life, it is difficult to believe that I have suicidal thoughts.  Yet for me, the reality is that at times the negative eclipses the positive. I have had a whirlwind year of difficult change, something my horoscope shockingly got right.  Though I have so much to be thankful for in my life, more change needs to happen because I cannot go on living like this.  I am now faced with the challenge of what that change is and how to make myself happy… But at the moment I’m stoned (remember the horse tranquilizers) so the current situation is sitting in a hazy holding pattern.  Not a long-term solution, but infinitely better than the bottom of the Burrard Inlet.

This is why I don't date!

On July 19 I was walking home, up some ungodly hill, from a soccer game. A boy chased me up this hill, out of breath, to chat me up and gives me his card. Flattering.  And the texting tourettes begins:

July 29: 5:43pm Me: “Hello. How is Maple Ridge. This is Klassy the girl you chased up the hill after the ManCity game last week.  Are you going to the game tomorrow?  I am going early with a few friends. So if you are game we can meet up and you can buy me a beer”

July 30: 6:12pm Mr. Texting Tourettes: “The Ridge is fine. Pretty sure I was chasing my friend up the hill.  Was really drunk. Can’t”

Aug 7: 11:32am: Mr.TT: “Do you think we are going to win today”

Aug 7: 4:12pm: Mr.TT: “Are you going to the game?”

Aug 7: 5:30pm: Klassy: “Unfortunately I am in Edmonton working this week trying to avoid the tornadoes. Have a great time at the game”

Aug 10: 12:02 am: Mr.TT: “Wat’s up?”

Aug 11: 6:34pm: Mr.TT: “Can I call you sometime?”

Aug 11: 7:53pm: “That could be acceptable”

Aug 11: 8:12pm: Mr.TT: “What do you do for a living?”

Aug 11: 8:14pm: Mr.TT: “Need any painting done?”

Aug 11: 8:23pm: Me: “Wow aren’t we full of questions”

Aug 11: 8:28pm: Mr.TT: “I could give you an estimate”

Aug 26: 6:38pm: Mr.TT: “Hi”

Sept 9: 11:40pm: Mr.TT: “Are you on facebook”

Sept 15:12:34am: Mr.TT: “I am scared to call yous”

Now I know why I don’t date! Are men really that touched?  Argh!  They are infuriating.  The irony of it all is that they think WE are the crazy ones.  In many ways, we have become the crazy ones because their stupidity makes us go insane.  Does common sense not land on the Y chromosome?

I feel that once you are of a certain age you should be… I don’t know… mature!  You should have a basic understanding of what is appropriate and inappropriate behavior.  Example: Texting a girl you just met at 7pm and asking how her day went.   Inappropriate behaviour is as demonstrated above: Texting her at midnight on a weeknight and asking her if she is on Facebook!  I truly do not believe my expectations are THAT HIGH.  Actually, I gave Mr.Texting Tourettes the benefit of the doubt in the beginning because of the whole lost in textation, which just begs another question: why not just call?  Which as you read ,  he actually asked me if he could do!  Who asks that? Have I been watching too many chick flicks that I think asking permission to call me is lame?  This guy is in his mid-thirties – you’ve got to be kidding me. Is it not safe to say that by thirty you should know to call a girl?   After I let him know calling me would be acceptable, he thinks continuing to text me questions about painting my house and giving me an estimate is OK.  I later find his card in the bottom of the “why do I keep this shit pile” and low and behold, he is a painter which might explain the behavior. Toxic fumes.  It was at this point of strangeness and still no phone call that I quit cordially returning texts.  Yet texts continued to persist after an inappropriate hour. But my favourite text was the last: “I am too scared to call yous.” I repeat: You have got to be kidding!

Then there is the Irishman – who is not Irish, though he is convinced he is.  If your grandparents, grandparents, grandparents came to the new world on a boat with scurvy during the first potato famine you are NOT IRISH, whatever your last name is.  You are CANADIAN!  I was able to overlook this because he was hot. And 6’4 – YUM!  He asked me out for drinks last Friday. Drinks. I’m not sure when I stopped eating dinner but whatever.  Again, he’s 6’4 and has the most beautiful hands I have ever seen! Now I am not sure if it is me, if he thought I was arrogant, but it was an aggressive evening at times.  And not the “I want to rip your clothes off and do dirty things to you” kind of aggression. It was the George Costanza kind of aggression.  Not only did Mr. Not So Irish (NSI) psychoanalyze me all evening, as though he could figure me out in one evening (yes NSI, I am one dimensional and have zero layers, thanks for the compliment) but he also challenged seemingly everything I said.  “I donated blood last week.” “No you didn’t.”  Who would lie about something like that?  It was as though he was trying to prove something to me.  At one point he told me I was lucky to get a weekend date because he never gives away his weekends for a first date.  Was I supposed to take that as a compliment?  What does one mean when they say crap like that?  Looking back, I actually think he was trying to impress me.  He kept telling me these stories about meeting people and them loving him and him getting a free mug from Starbucks. Yeah, I know.  Random.   At one point, he even called himself charming. No lie!  The same guy comes out with the oh so original comment of women are crazy and men are simple, just feed them beer and compliment them.  How is one supposed to compliment someone when that person is doing such a great job of blowing smoke up their own ass.  I could no longer hold my tongue at the charming comment.  It was my duty to let him know:  “You’re arrogant, not charming and the reason you got the free mug is because you are hot.”  How is that for a back handed compliment!

The irony of this is that earlier this year before my world fell apart I would have loved any attention at all from the opposite sex.  Really it was quite sad.  I would have probably just dealt with the stupidity out of desperation.  Well, I have proven this point.  I once followed around a chubby little longshoreman with rosy cheeks like a lost puppy, who only called when he needed something.  I thought he must really like me because he texted me at midnight to come pick him up from work and take him home. Talk about touched, Klassy!  I am thankful to report that this has changed. It might be because of me dropping 15 lbs (ah Tony Horton, I HATE YOU, but I LOVE YOU).  Well, it’s 200 lbs if you count the 185 lbs of emotional baggage that is my former father.   Normally, attention from Mr.Texting Tourettes or NSI would have me desperately trying to maintain communication, meet up for a date on his terms, all for the hope that eventually he would call me his girlfriend – GUSH ! We would get married – maybe even buy a house with a white picket fence, which of course Mr. Texting Tourrettes could paint.  And I would have deluded myself into believing I liked him, just as long as it was someone, anyone who in my twisted definition of a relationship, liked me.  I know, messed up.  But you have to remember that I grew up in a household where the man was dominant. Through an environment contrived by the manipulative personality of my father, it was instilled in me that men only wanted tall, skinny pretty women who cooked and cleaned.  It was clear from early on that my father’s worth of a woman was based on her looking good, cooking, cleaning and waiting on him.  Personality mattered not, because her job was to simply listen to all the wonderful things he did in a day.  I would like to say I am exaggerating but, sadly I am not. For years I was told “You would be so pretty if you lost 20 lbs.” Talk about tearing away at my self-esteem.  I still remember in my early twenties I made some flippant comment around him about wanting to marry a Croatian footballer – to which he looked at me and said “That will never happen.  They only marry gorgeous models.”  I once asked him if he did not know where the dishwasher was (as I was tired of having to come home from school and clean his lunch dishes off of the kitchen table). His response? “That is why I had girls.”  I could go on and on, which is not therapeutic to my new goal of letting the anger go.  But as you can tell, I had/have some issues to work through.  However, I am happy to report that I have grown some element of self-esteem and no longer think “Why would they like me?” “What can I bring to the table” and now think “Do I actually even like you?”

 Now despite all this higher learning, I did end up sleeping with NSI and we have texted since (so pathetic this is considered a positive thing in the dating world). So despite the fact that he irritated me, I would be willing to go on another date with him.  Maybe it is my ego wanting to crush his arrogance, or maybe I misinterpreted everything he was saying and I need to work through some of my baggage.  After all this, maybe it is my fault that I get all agro about the idiotic things men say and do, because I am obviously willing to put up with it (to a certain extent).

Just in – 2 min before I was about to post – Mr.TT strikes again:

Mr.TT: “Sorry for the previous random texts”

Me: “Ya they were a little random”

Mr.TT: “Well my life is complicated. I was very flattered by your invite to buy you a beer”

Me: “Nice to know”

Mr.TT: Do you have an open mind? I have a feeling we know mutual people”

Me: “Ummm….I’ll bite – who?”

Mr.TT:  “Well all I know when I searched Klassy on facebook five came up mutual friends”

Mr.TT:  “with mutual friends”

Mr.TT: “Are you going to whitecaps game?”

Me: “Fun fact – but I am not on facebook.  Still undecided on the game – trying to figure out”

Mr.TT: “Are you alien everyone is on facebook. Wish I could get off”

Me: “Did you just call me an alien?”

Mr.TT: “Please abduct me ………….now!!!”

Mr.TT: “I am with someone but it is sketchy”

Me: “Ya you should sort that out”

Mr.TT: “’Ill meet you for a coffee”

Me: “Actually I think you should work out your relationship”

Mr.TT:  “Its never simple”

Mr.TT: “Beckham and Posh were in relationships when they met”

THIS IS WHY I DON’T DATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rated X

Warning: The following post is explicit and entirely composed of “touch much detail.” It is not for   those with a conscience, the morally inclined or the squeamish.  If you choose to continue to read, you need not place judgment.  I’ve already been to church to pray for my soul.  Only 9,354 Hail Mary’s to go, while kneeling on rice and flagellating.

I F*CKED the groom! Yes, you read that right, I F*CKED the groom! Oh VEGAS!  Why do you make me such a bad person?  My moral compass and self-respect was left in Vancouver on this trip because it was no-where to be found early Sunday morning while the groom from the bachelor party next door tore off my clothes and ripped my tampon out! Oh ya, I got my period in Vegas – JOY! Though that obviously was not a deterrent for this particular groom. Neither was the fact that he was walking down the aisle in TWO WEEKS!

It began innocently enough. Fifteen guys for the groom’s stag. The guys kept on inviting Eva and I out.  I had my eye on a couple of the SINGLE ones. Note SINGLE. Then Saturday night rolls around and they invited us out to Excess . That’s where the innocence ends.  I am not sure if it is because all my guy friends are perverts and say rude things to me all the time, or that I have such low self-esteem that I don’t truly believe a guy would actually pursue me when there were so many hot women around, but whatever it was, the alarm bells did not start ringing once the groom started hitting on me and asking me about my favorite sexual position Ankles to ears, by the way.  Who doesn’t love that one…quickly followed by the declaration of “I want to f*ck you”. I am totally stunned.  It seemed like average cocky guy talk.  Not until he tried to kiss me did a red flag shoot up.  Actually yellow. I might have had significant amounts of Grey Goose by this point in the evening.  I was starting to get drawn in by the heavy persistence and attention. A girl can only take so much.  Eventually, I was in too deep (and later he was in a lot deeper) to walk away. Moral compass gone! Self-respect – dissipated! Clothes – no longer in reach! BAH!!  Am I really riding this guy right now?  More importantly did he just really have me sit on his face for 2 hours when I had my period?!  Funny enough, this is not my first experience with a guy eating me out on my period. It is actually the third.  I must have some serious pheromones while on my rag and it just draws the perverts in like magnets.  It was just all so dirty and raw, and kids I am not going to lie – It was F*CKEN HOT!!  Not sure if the guilt I felt on Monday when I landed back in reality was due to the entire engaged fiancé thing or the fact that I was so taken with the raunchy dirty forbidden sex.  But that is not the worst of it.  I know how can it get much worse.  It became apparent that not only did the groom have no moral crisis over nailing me two weeks before his wedding, but he also did not care about the state of his sheets which now had bloody handprints all over them.  What he did care about was the murder scene that was left on his stomach when he finally came and I crawled off.  How do I know this you ask? Because when I dismounted, he looked down at his stomach and ran to the bathroom and PUKED! Have you ever had a guy puke after sex? Talk about destroying your self-esteem.

Now besides the obvious problem of infidelity and breaking one of the commandments (Thou shall not covet another’s husband), there is the additional issue of opening up the flood gates.  I am a bit of an 18 year old boy when it comes to getting laid, and once I get it I want it all the time.  At the moment I am going through complete withdrawal and am horny as f*ck which sucks because as a result I was prepared to hump a lamp post the other day.  So despite moral repercussions which,  let’s be honest, I was already going to hell because of Sunday morning, I dropped by his room early Monday morning before checkout to get another fix.  This is where my self-respect hit an all time low. Not only were his hotel mates in the room while he persistently asked me to put his balls in my mouth while trying to rip off my clothes, but there were also conversations with his roommates about lesbian experiences and the puking incident while I played tug and pull under the covers.  Then one of them turned on porn. I am not  sure why I drew the line at that given  everything else I was doing. Yes, my high standards included not nailing him in the room with the guys and hanging out with 4 guys watching porn while I was in my underwear.  I even picked out the porn episode entitled “Who is f*cking my hot wife?” I thought the theme of infidelity was appropriate! But after the jokes and the props for being cruel from the roommates, I decided that my self-respect was still high enough not to stick around for the circle jerk.  I assume that is what four guys do when they are sitting around together and watching porn. How I get myself into these situations, I will never know.  Oh wait I do know – I knocked on the door because I am an 18 year horny boy!  Eventually he concedes and comes back to my room.  Which was all good until , ah being a woman is tough sometimes! Stupid air getting trapped in certain holes, no control when it wants to escape. His face might have been right there at the time. Talk about destroying the mood. (I warned you, TOO MUCH DETAIL).  Whatever,  that will get him back for puking.  It was strange after we finished our romp. We lay there and talked about our jobs, finances and why New York over London.  Oh and the fact that we were going to hell.  Serious!

What has surprised me about this experience is not that I felt so little guilt about it afterwards (I am single!) but that many of my friends think it was fine.  And not just because it was me.  Some have even given me props, like a notch on my sexual belt.  You always assume that infidelity, no matter the circumstances, should be condemned and that people will judge you for bad behavior.  That doesn’t seem to be the case.  The general consensus was the responsibility was his and not mine, and I had done nothing wrong.  Why should I be the responsible one in Vegas?  It’s not like I was getting married.  In my years, I know more than one friend who has been the other women, or friends that have cheated. The membership list for TEAM HOME WRECKER is not a short one and some of the names on the list would floor you.  Is infidelity less of a sin today? If I said he was not just engaged but married with children and we were still talking, does that make what happened worse?  Is there a hierarchy of bad when it comes to cheating, or is cheating just cheating?  I grew up in a home where my Dad always had girlfriends, and it was always kinda of known.  My mother never made a big deal of it and when it was eventually confirmed to me, I wasn’t devastated.  Frankly, I was quite cavalier about it.  The issues with my father are not his infidelity, but his treatment of his family. The infidelity only added fuel to the fire.  Yet it would be stupid to think the family environment I grew up in did not warp my views on cheating.  I am not saying that I would totally be cool with my husband doing as the groom did – I most likely would break his nose – but  it does raise the question of whether I would stay.  And knowing myself sexually, and the need for the forbidden and exciting, will I one day get wrapped up in a moment and cheat on my husband, and would I expect him to stay if I did? To some it is cut and dry: cheating means the end of a marriage. Of course, your views on this are developed by watching your parent’s relationship, but the above mentioned friends came from a range of family upbringings including solid family units, among those with divorce.  

I figure all this uncertainty is why women (and men) stand on their spouses and breathe down their necks to ensure they do not get a moment to stray. To me, that seems exhausting and at times futile.  Because all it takes is one luncheon, one trip, one moment when you get carried away.  In no way am I saying cheating is OK!  I am simply pointing out that there is always a chance of it happening and if it does happen, on a scale of evils where does it happen to fall? I have always believed that if a man is going to cheat he will find a way, and now being the one that was cheated with, I have not changed my belief about trusting your spouse. If my fiancé wants a Vegas stag, strippers, etc,  I will in no way stand in his way because in turn I never want to be told I am not allowed to do something.  I guess what I am getting at is the cheating topic all depends on the person. Being who I am  (that is, not the tamest person in the world who tends to unwittingly push boundaries and get wrapped up in the moment), I may have to live with the fact that the man I do settle down with will be similar and infidelity could happen.  How I handle it at the time is a mystery.  All I know is, despite the revelation that men really do cheat on their stags, I will not become a controlling girl who nags and harps.  It is just not in me, even though there could be potential risks in not doing so.

The Inaugural Red Neck-A-Thon 2011

Last weekend was the inaugural family reunion on my mother’s side, or as I would like to call it: Red Neck-A-Thon 2011.  It was held at my Uncle Sam’s, which meant driving ten hours to Calgary only to realize you need to drive another SEVEN HOURS to a place called BONNYVILLE which is a whopper of a town. It has TWO (count’em TWO) token Chinese restaurants. But we do not stop there. 10 minutes outside of this thriving community is a bison farm (those are buffalo for you city folks) and my Uncle’s is kitty corner.

Let me give you a glimpse into my mother’s brothers and sisters and you tell me if you still think your family is crazy.  My mother is the oldest of five children.  They grew up on a farm in southern Alberta.  Mom cannot remember ever having running water and the family pet was a cow named Betsy which they treated like a horse and rode around the farm. After my Mom comes my Uncle Elmer. Uncle Elmer is hilarious… if you think telling an 8 year old (i.e. me) that he lost all his fingers on his right hand by sucking his thumb is funny.  Let’s say I quit sucking my thumb cold turkey that summer.  He lives in the woods in Northern Alberta and has bought up all the land around him because people are really not his thing. 

Next comes my Uncle Sam who bears a striking resemblance to Yosemite Sam, drives a truck and has a Budweiser tattoo on his forearm. Uncle Sam hasn’t had a lot of luck with the Ladies.  His first wife had a son from another marriage (who I believe he is actually in jail now) and they had a daughter together.  He comes home one day to find the place was cleaned out and his wife and daughter were gone. But there was a note. “Have moved to Vancouver, I am a lesbian.”  So that was wife number one.  Wife number two also had a boy from a previous marriage, Skippy, who I believe my Uncle adopted. They then had Jean and Margaret, now in their early twenties.  One day my Uncle comes home to an empty house (I know, it’s a recurring theme) to find his wife had moved in with the neighbour.  There went wife number two. The latest woman is a LARP. Not sure if she thinks she is Maid Marian, but the idea of my Uncle in tights as Robin Hood is just disturbing.  However, I think her involvement paints a picture of what I was dealing with, personality wise. She has two kids in their early twenties from a previous marriage and they are just a bundle of JOY.  I should not say that, her son is nice enough.  But the girl, lets just say the ice pick was about to make another appearance.

Next is Aunty Sharon.  I love my Aunt dearly, but like the rest of the family she has her quirks, mainly she brings a new meaning to the word micro-managing. You would never know that Aunty Sharon grew up on a farm with chickens and dirt.  It seems more like she would have grown up on Manhatten’s upper eastside.  Aunty Kathy married Uncle Dave and they had Mark.  Mark is 14 and Mark got into trouble during Red-Neck-A-Thon 2011, which I’ll describe shortly.

Lastly is my Uncle Blake.  Oh where do I begin?! My Uncle Blake is big on precise directions and patience as my mother is fully aware.  His instructions consist of “go get the bull.”  Don’t all normal people know how to rope in a bull?  Yes, they teach that in grade 3 right after the 10 provinces and their capitals. Then, when something goes wrong, such as the bull running at you, and you move, his opportunity to display his famous grip on patience kicks in. It really is amazing how quickly blood can race to one’s head as he jumps up and down screaming at you for moving because now the bull got out. I am not sure Uncle Blake understands that small instinct to … you know … LIVE! Uncle Blake married my Aunty June who is the sweetest woman alive.  I can still remember the first time I met Aunty June.  We were driving out in the pasture to check something. She got out of the car.  Ants crawled up her pants so she rips them off.  A great first impression on a 5 year old.  Their children are Connor (17) and Chad (14)

The Midget (aka my sister) and I arrive at the farm to a very warm welcome.  We are told all of OUR family has gone fishing and that the LARP’s daughter’s dog eats little dogs and therefore our puppy Stanley needs to stay in the house.  A) Why do you have an evil dog? and B) Why is your daughter here??   The Midget and I being the problem solvers we are promptly turned the car around, found the nearest lakeside beach and started to drink. 

But really, that is nothing compared to the stunt my cousins pulled.  I guess when everyone had gone to bed on the 1^st night Chad and Mark took it upon themselves to raid the beer fridge and it did not bode well for young Mark. Chad being a farm kid, 6’2” and 220 lbs was not phased by the raiding.  Mark on the other hand might have puked in his tent and promptly passed out back into it.  You should know that Aunty Sharon and Uncle Dave are not cool with underage drinking.  They have gone so far as to convince Mark that he is allergic to alcohol and therefore should never drink it.  I am pretty sure we are all allergic to alcohol.  It is poison, correct?  Who is not allergic to poison?!  Plus anyone who drinks 3 ciders (7% alcohol content) and a few more beer to boot on their first drinking binge is going to be “allergic” all over their pillow.  The kicker (and I cannot believe that this flew with his parents) was that he told them he got sick off of candy!  Seriously?!  The Midget was all over that with “ya, when I eat too much candy I always puke and promptly pass back out into it!” The hilarious part is everyone in the family knew the kid was hung over but no one wanted to break it to his parents who seemed to have bought this “candy story.”  They did eventually clue in, but I’m not sure how. It may have been the family referring to the beer fridge as the candy fridge for the rest of the weekend.

Besides these shenanigans, the reunion was fairly uneventful.  There were just a few minor irritations like the LARP throwing a 5^th birthday party for a neighbour’s kid in the middle of the reunion and oh – and the simple presence of her daughter. Have I mentioned she was a less than desirable person – and FAT!  Yet, what was strange this time was the Midget’s and my role in the family.  As kids, we always wanted to stay up late and sit around the fire as the uncles drank and told stories. They were hilarious and oh sooo cool.  This time, they all headed to bed at a decent hour and the activities were pretty mellow.  Then one night Connor and his girlfriend emerge after his parents had gone to bed to drink with Skippy, Jean, Margaret and I.  I announce “Grandma needs to go to bed” and he looks at me and says, “Really, I was thought you would be the one to get the party going.”  This is the thing.  To my cousins, I am the cool uncle they want to hang out with – without their parents around.  It just keeps driving home this recurring theme I am struggling to come to grips with in 2011.  I am no longer the child. I am the adult. It really is an adjustment.

Even DJ Tanner had a Boyfriend!

So it is no secret that I am single. I’ve been single for a very long time actually. WAIT! Have I ever been in a relationship? Does an eight month period of dating count? Or hanging out? Sleeping with?  Does acting like a lovesick girlfriend, getting nothing in return and having him refuse to call me his girlfriend count? Let’s see: crying, emotional damage, reduced self-esteem …yep a relationship. Sad but this was also the longest of my so-called relationships. I never even had a boy hold my hand in high school.  Do you know what that does to a girl’s self-esteem? And I blame Hollywood for making it worse. Every pre-teen girl had a boyfriend in the movies. Even DJ Tanner had a boyfriend.  She wasn’t even that pretty! I assumed it was the fantastic ‘80s puff hair which, believe me, I spent hours and hours attempting to perfect. When the puff failed me, I took to praying every night.  I am dead serious. Every night in my prayers since the age of 12 I have prayed for a boy to like me. ANY BOY! Finally in my thirties I am starting to realize that my lack of standards may have led me into half-baked flings with many a suspect men  ... cough… douchebags! But when you pray every night for 6 years and finally at 18 years old the first boy you kiss ends up going out with the cougar with a 6 year old instead of you - you begin to think, well at least he liked me for just a moment.  At least I can now say I have been kissed.

I do not say all this because I am having some massive pity party about still being single.  I say this because I finally see the error of my ways.  I spent 18 years willing to settle for anything. Picking men that were players trying to make them like me because that would mean I was worth it, but not realizing they were self- involved pricks who when they lose their looks are no longer players but just creepy old men.  I ran into one of these failed conquests the other day and my first thought was “what was I thinking?” How quickly the slight chub in our twenties turns into “wow, is that just going to hang there?” I was floored! I made a complete fool of myself at a wedding once trying to get this man’s attention. In my defense, I was quite intoxicated and might have thrown a water glass at the head table thinking I was setting the glass down gently – or so I have been told.  There was no videographer so as far as I am concerned, this event was hearsay.

But that was not the only encounter that created this revelation.  In my dating history, which again is brief, I managed to have two heartbreaks.  The 8 month stint with the Coward which is a whole can of daddy issue worms on why I stayed in that one. But the one that really broke my heart started as a friend and one night after bottles and bottles of wine he leaned over and kissed me. What the hell?! Love! We had known each other for three years and launched into this euphoric relationship where he would write me emails about butterflies in his stomach over the excitement to see me. Total pathetic crap that I was just eating up!  We go away together and our first night together is amazing.  He cooked me a gourmet meal and we drank a few bottles of wine and well … you can see where this is going. Then the next day he breaks up with me. Might as well have hit me over the head with a frying pan. That would have been less of a shock.  I spent the next 3 hours by myself crying on the ferry home. This crushed me so badly that 2 weeks later on vacation with Hookah, I was still bursting into tears. Once at an internet café in nowhere-ville Turkey, the older proprietor who didn’t speak a lick of English brought us watermelon to make me stop crying.  Basically Gayboy ripped out my heart – it was awful. Oh yes, I should mention my fantastic friends thought he was gay.  In all seriousness, I thought this was the one.  The timeline was right and everything: meet at 25, marry at 27, kids at 30. HA! I guess I missed the boat on that one!  It destroyed me.  What the hell was the matter with me? Why did no boy want to date me? This never happened to DJ Tanner! Where is Uncle Jesse when you need him! Maybe he would date me? Yum!

However, I am glad to say that the world has its ways and unanswered prayers are sometimes a blessing.  I saw Gayboy two days ago walking down the street and despite ducking into the nearest building to avoid seeing him (I really did not think I was looking my cutest that day –  please do not mistake my vanity for caring) my only thought was – Thank GOD for unanswered prayers.  Now married, he’s not openly gay, but he is balding (make that bald). This is despite having hair EVER WHERE else, bad posture and being slight in the shoulders.  What was I thinking? 

It took me some time to learn lessons my lessons with men. I will concede, I was definitely on the short bus. I have finally gotten some self-esteem when it comes to men – and the proof is in the pudding.  After a football match two weeks ago, a guy ran up a hill to pick me up. I mean literally ran up the hill. Flattering!  He was average cute and chatted me up for a few blocks before giving me his card. Another football match took place today so I thought I would text him letting him know he could buy me a beer. I thought this was quite the cute cheeky text message.  His response was just plain dumb: “I’m pretty sure I was racing my friend up the hill…I was pretty drunk. I can’t tomorrow.”  What was the point of even responding?  But despite this, whatever it is, the old me would have texted back trying to make something happen, instantly reverting into my needy thinking that any attention is good attention.  Instead, without even a second thought, I laughed and thought “Wow, buddy. Way to destroy your chance!”

I maybe single at 31 where my best prospect is a gentleman from overseas whose idea of romance is sending me video clips about cricket. No joke, the English are a bit touched when it comes to women. How they manage to keep up their birth rates considering their male population’s inability to approach a woman is an act of god.  Therefore, if you are with me about unanswered prayers, join me in rocking with Beyonce - the best thing I never had! Seriously, she can do no wrong.

Side Effects

My task of not thinking was not as easy as anticipated. Actually, it was really difficult. And I know difficult – I am currently 2 ½ months into P90X with that sadistic little twirp Tony Horton with his catch phrase :“I hate it, but I love it!” NO TONY! I JUST STRAIGHT OUT HATE IT! His theory for fitness is ‘muscle confusion’ whatever the hell that is. Basically, it is screwing with people because as soon as you think you have the hang of it, the twirp CHANGES it! I can tell you one thing my muscles are not confused about – that is the amount of constant pain they are in!  Bah!  P90X is what I consider difficult and I have been doing it for 73 days, so who would have thought not thinking for only a week would be harder? I hate to report – it was!

It is even sadder to report that the stress of not thinking was so bad, I began to break out. And not just those pop’ em and 30 minutes later the pimple is but a memory. I mean those nasty, under the skin,stubborn Slavic chin hair must have an ingrown type of pimples that you cannot pop.  The ones where you want to use acid to burn a hole into the heart of it because it is just that irritating.  All this got me thinking about how unfair the world is.  I am 31 years old and I am still getting pimples? Should buying Clearasil not have ended in high school? I am now in the wrinkle stage, buying $50 eye cream so I don’t start looking like Cameron Diaz’s roommate from Something About Mary. Yet I am still getting pimples! It is should be one or the other – not both!.

But I am happy to report that the arduous task of not thinking was eventually completed on Thursday when I discovered the solution. Alcohol. Specifically, copious amounts of alcohol. It worked like a charm! I didn’t think at all for the rest of the week, mind you I also did not get off the couch. It began innocently enough. Eva and I met for drinks after work at a local restaurant that is crawling with those seen-to-be-seen types. After a few free shots from random men with fake & bake tans who were old enough to be my father, the night was on its way. One of Eva’s clients arrived.  Her client looks at me and says ‘I know you.” Ominous!  “My Dad knows your Dad.” Oh joy!  I still have not gotten a handle on how to deal with social circles associated with a man I am estranged from.  Then he gives me his name. Not only he know my dad, but his is dad is my fricken GOD FATHER! Which would make him my god brother?! Is that how that works? Who the hell knows! If I remember correctly, he is maybe 5 years older than I and the last time he saw me I was maybe 7 years old.  How the hell did he recognize me? It’s not like I advertised my last name. 

I should mention the reason we have not seen each other in 23 years is my father quit speaking to his father for some unknown reason. But now in the last few years they have started chatting and hanging out again. Does that not seem strange to you?  Stop talking for 20 years and pick up as though nothing had happened? Seriously, am I just being a woman about this?  Something would have to go terribly wrong for me to stop talking to someone for TWENTY YEARS. Not sure I would just become buddies with him again. Anyways, my new found god brother reveals all this when I am drunk.  Actually, I’m HAMMERED! Not sure how I actually got that wasted.  I was only drinking white wine… well a couple bottles,. Oh and then there were shots. Maybe that was it!  Anyways, I was suddenly in a situation where I had to bite my tongue as my seemingly nice god brother (who if I remember correctly was buying the shots), began talking about meeting my dad in Croatia and how cool it would be.  Even sober, I have no inner monologue and this situation was becoming a lot more difficult than my vow to not think this week.  I’m aware that screaming and combusting into sobs in the middle of a nice restaurant with an innocent by stander because he spoke nicely of my father is not acceptable behaviour. I looked to Eva for help, but at this moment she was drinking with fake & bake and starting a dance party in the middle of the restaurant.  I was alone to control my unbalanced emotional anger, which though I perspired through the entire event, I was successful (I think).

It could have been worse! I could have been Eva who doesn’t remember leaving the restaurant. Or the limo ride to the next bar.  Or who covered off our $200 bill that she told me that night she had settled. She woke up at 6am, half naked with me passed out beside her.  She was supposed to be at work and clearly had forgotten the entire your client is my long lost god brother story.

And then it came, yet again, at 6am. Another walk of shame. This time, WITHOUT GETTING LAID! Seriously, this is starting to become a habit and if it continues this way I might as well get into a religious habit and call it quits. Yet, the goal was reached.  By the end of the week, I was no longer thinking due to my helpful remedy. Unfortunately the side effects of my remedy stuck with me all weekend. Seriously I am getting to old for this sh*t!

BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE!

I must apologize for not posting last week.  It is not that I did not write a blog, but my ever clever editor – my ROCK – also know as Hookah (Oh YES, I am obsessed with TRUE BLOOD) advised me not to post because it was a little … well … angry! Not sure how she got that impression since it was simply entitled I want to Stab my Roommate through the Heart with an Ice Pick.  For the record, I do not own an ice pick.  Seriously, who owns an ice-pick? I am normal, I have an ice cube tray, which fortunately for Betty I cannot stab her with.  But I was quite prepared to drive to Home Depot and buy one. I guess with that premeditated thinking I could not claim insanity on the murder charge? Anger management problems … me? …NEVER!

Do you ever get those weeks where you depend on those wise clichés to get you through the day?  “Only through failure can you really learn”, “anything worth having is worth fighting for”, “sometimes you have to move backwards in order to move forward”, “life will never throw more at you than you can handle.” I have created a mantra this week involving these clichés. I suspect none of them have any real truth or validity to them. I feel they were created for the simple task of deluding us to make it through the day and keep us from jumping off a bridge on our way home from work. Which obviously since I alive to write this, worked for me this week, despite all the tempting bridges so conveniently placed on my drive home!

This week was not disastrous, well except on top of my law suit a project at work was cancelled on me, and I was told the company wanted me to start repaying the $8000 hole I am in with them by taking 20% of my sales.  Well the joke is on them – 20% times zero is …wait for it …. ZERO!!!  So glad I paid attention in grade 3 math! And then to top it all off, my lucky to be alive puppy, Stanley, decided to not only pee on my roommate’s bed, but also shat on her pillows.  Seriously!  And all this triggered me thinking – and thinking is not good for me because I can lose weeks stuck in my head – it is like Beetlejuice in there!  I have been going in circles trying to figure out if this slump is a necessary evil or if I should just throw in the towel? Am I fulfilled in my career and is this what I want to do for the rest of my life? Am I feeling this way because it is not what I am meant to do? If I got another job, what would it be? Am I in a moment of the ‘grass is greener on the other side’ and it will pass? Have I given too much to quit now? Am I strong enough to overcome it and come out on top? Every successful person failed before they succeeded – is this my failure? Or is this the push I need to prove my potential, not to give up. Nothing is easy in life.

I know you want to scream “BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE” after reading that – imagine being me! As I go into this downward spiral, I start to think: your life is not that bad, you could be hooked on crack, be homeless or even worse: think that white pants with a black g-string is an acceptable fashion choice. Screw that!  So I should compare my life to drug addicts and the fashionably unfortunate to make myself feel better about life? F*CK THAT!  I am a good person (well, besides the premeditated murder – some might find that wrong).  Why should I not get to be happy?! I forgot to mention above one of my favourite clichés, not by some epic writer, or guru, but from the very intelligent Hookah: “Enough already, I’ve learnt my f*cken lesson. It is time for the world to DELIVER!”

Getting trapped in your head sucks!  I find at times I actually think about one topic for so long that I convince myself not to do it because I thought of every single consequence to my action.  It is irritating. It is like I create baggage that was not even there (because my real baggage was not enough?!). It is stagnating. And to be honest with you, I have spent so much time in there lately that I have gotten zero done. Which in turn puts me in my head regretting my non-action and it becomes this vicious circle.

My only consolation is that I am not alone.  All women do this.  Or maybe just the ones I hang out with, which makes sense because misery loves company.  Have you ever noticed how a friend goes on a date, you call and ask how it went and you start getting the objections.  Well, he lives here and I’m not sure that would work, and then something about his family, and his eating habits and he dated a girl 4 months ago – not sure he is over it.  Seriously, we over analyze everything until it is almost dead. It was one date, hardly even know the guy and either we have decided they are not going to be a good father, or they are perfect and the wedding dress is picked. Whereas, the guy left the date and the only comment he makes to his friends about it is: she had a nice ass – and that is it.

I start to wonder if that is it. Is this over thinking – over analyzing – what actually holds you back from happiness?  Think about it (oh, I know this statement is going to be ironic soon): If you just did what you wanted to do without thinking about the consequences, you have two outcomes: good or bad.  If good – great no more thought. If bad, well you put little hope and thought into it, so it is not a crushing blow. I think that is how we screw ourselves with jobs, with relationships. Over thinking! The placing hopes and spending hours analyzing something you never had in the first place as opposed to just doing. I realize that there is hazard in walking through life with a reactive mentality; however it works for men. They never think, what if she does not call me back, what if she does not plan the date and calls me the last minute. Nope, they just call the last minute knowing we have probably thought of four different alternatives depending on when he called and have suggestions on hand.  Ah! Being proactive sucks!

I need to get out of my head because those bridges on the way home from work are becoming more and more tempting despite my cliché mantra. Therefore, I am going to try something new. I am going to live next week reactively.  Screw responsibility and consequences! Not that I am going to pull a Stanley and shit on someone’s bed, but I am sure whatever I do, with my great karma, will land me in some small cell somewhere in the South Pacific. But what this means for you my readers is next week you will not have a soul searching blog post but a guaranteed good story.

The Stigma!

Well the week started off with a BANG – literally! BANG is the noise I made when I fell face first onto the packed bus Monday morning. Seriously if this was an omen to how the week was going to proceed I was in for a ride. After having the lovely older bus driver help me up, I proceeded to scurry to the back of the bus, out of shear embarrassment, and I then quickly looked up my horoscope for the week to see if it was an omen. And true to form my horoscope was completely useless.

It began by speaking of international moves with partners. NOT APPLICABLE! Single as always! Yes I know it is a cliché to talk about being single and the hardship we face, but whatever, it is my blog and it irritates me. It seems that single people at my age are always forced to justify their situation when showing up solo: be it weddings, work galas, even birthday parties. Where is your plus one? Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question? Because lets be honest my significant other at the moment is my mother - she is the one I am sharing a bed with and frankly that is too sad of an answer. A friend of mine, Miss Lady, who has the same social stigma as I were discussing how in our twenties it was socially acceptable to bring a friend to the aforementioned events - that way you had someone to deflect annoying questions and make fun of what people were wearing (really is that not the reason we go to these events? Open Bar & Fashion Disasters?!) But now that we are in our thirties it is no longer acceptable to bring your girl friends (and lets be honest most of them would rather sit on their asses in their Lulus than be forced to be another single girl at a wedding) and now you roll solo.

Though you maybe happy and truly confident in your singledom no matter what way you spin it, there is a social sigma!! My particular situation may be made worse by the demographic at my office. I work with men. You can count the women in an office of 100 on one hand. In our twenties most were single and both genders mingled in peace and harmony, however we got older and many married and it is like we are back in elementary school: boys on one side and girls on the other! And there I am left standing in the middle of the dance floor - ALONE. I work with the men, I know the men, yet social structure dictates I stand with the women on the other wall. Unfortunately the men fall right in line with this thinking because they do not want to deal with their wives on the drive home giving them the third degree about “that girl” they were talking to at the bar. Many of you are probably thinking I am over reacting but it is unfortunately true. Women say men are possessive, I really think that possessiveness and jealousy is a shoe that fits both genders. I do realize that there are very cool married women who in no way exhibit these qualities towards single women; Mrs. Lucy is a prime example. Yet the majority falls into the following category: I once invited a colleague to an exclusive event that would have benefited him professionally. When the girlfriend found out his “colleague” was a woman – with never meeting me - she told him he was not allowed to go. Of course this was at the last minute and I was once again rolling solo (my mother was otherwise detained). How are women to move forward in the world of business if married women act in this manner? They might as well be this guy!

The other unfortunate part of being single in your thirties is even if you walk over to the wives side and they accept you with open arms, which to be fair they always do, you have nothing in common. Many of them are pregnant with their second and their favourite topics are weddings; either their own or some new fiancée that has joined the wives crew. Why is it that weddings are the bonding topic among women? Out of not wanting to seem like a bitch you are forced to ask the newly engaged woman about her dress, bridesmaids, flowers – I really don’t give a flying fuck. Why can we not talk about shoes? Oh ya because you spent all your money on the wedding and babies and are now forced to shop at Pay Less! Painful subject they try and avoid – just like the question they all end up asking me at some point in the evening? Why are you single? Don’t I want a family? I bite down hard not to respond “Oh because I decided not to settle like you!” What is worse these questions always have a sympathetic or even condescending tone to them. When you jokingly deflect the question with an sappy answer such as “when I meet a man I can stand more than 20min” in order to avoid the impending pity party they have planned for you, you are forced to listen to advice that is delivered like condolences – “you’ll get there someday” – BAH!!! You know 1 in 3 marriages ends in divorce (and it is rumored they cost much more than the wedding).

As I am going on about this, I fully understand I am in the middle of a rant and beginning to feel bad but then I am given the material evidence to my theory. While sitting here writing at Starbucks a friend of my father’s walks in. He is a very nice man and we chat for a while. After a courteous 5 min of “what is new?” small talk (stupidly I always assume that they are asking about my job when they ask that) it came to the topic of my love life. What he really meant by “what is new?” Nothing, still single! It turned into this 20min conversation about how being single is FINE and how I would meet the right one eventually and there was no rush, blah blah blah! Does anyone ever feel they need to pep talk a married women about being married – no it is Oh WOW you are married, Congratulations! I think one of my favourite thoughts from my recently married friend, the Lieutenant; when she graduated law school not a single member of her extended family flew to her graduation or sent gifts – a 3 year hard core undertaking and nothing. But when she got engaged – hell or high water they made the wedding. She looked at me with this revelation one day and said “does this make sense?”

After this man thankfully gave me the cause for my above rant I noticed that he never once brought up my Dad and it makes me wonder, does he know I no longer have a relationship with my father? I wonder if he even speaks to my Dad anymore? Not like my father would ever mention we do not speak, it would destroy the illusion he has created with his friends about him being this great family man – ha! I even found myself lying to this man about why I was in this neighborhood saying I was meeting a friend (which he snuck in – is this friend a boy? What are people trying to make you feel like you have a hairy mole on your lip?). I lied about not living in the neighborhood in case he reported back to my father. I even had to hold my tongue when this man graciously complimented the way I looked and that I had lost some weigh (which was very kind of him) – the response of “Ya that tends to happen when you start shedding thirty years of emotional baggage!” was so close to rolling out of my mouth.

In the end, if people insist on making singles feel bad about ourselves and basically implying that we have a disability and force us to justify our situation I want our own parking space at Super Store between the expectant mothers and the actual handi-capped.

Love Klassy Kass

The Walks of SHAME

The walk of shame! Oh, how our friendship has bloomed over the years.  I will admit I have clocked a marathon or two of miles doing the walk of shame. But come on, kids - I am 31year old who can  counted  her 3 to 4 month patchy relationships on one hand, however I can firmly say that counting my walks of shame on one hand is no longer a possibility. Many may find this sad, yet I am very comfortable with my singledom.

There is something very freeing in the activities that are the precursors to the walk of shame. In my extensive experience, I find that when you go home with someone who you know you’ll have no future with (because let’s be honest – do you really want a relationship with a guy you slept with on the first night?), he is there for one purpose and one purpose only, there is no need for niceties like remembering their name and tender foreplay. Just get ‘er going so you can get what you need and get to sleeping off the hangover. There are some who believe they have to be emotionally involved to have good sex but I definitely do not prescribe to that school of thought – good sex is mechanical and mentally satisfying sex is emotional. On most occasions, I have found the walks of shame satisfy the mechanical just fine. Unless you get a jack rabbit! There is no helping a jack rabbit, even when you are screaming direction like a drill sergeant. They have one move with one speed and you might as well starfish and hope he ends quickly or, as the efficient women we are, start sleeping off the hangover because a) he won’t notice and b) do you really care if he does?

Contrary to popular belief (again, through my aforementioned extensive research, I have found that statistically jackrabbits are few and far between), normally the gentlemen are good times, making the inconveniences of the walk of shame palatable. You know the inconveniences I am talking about: brushing your teeth with your finger, the question of what to do with your underwear (Wear it? Put it in your pocket? What if this is the day you get hit by a bus – and the paramedic is super hot and you do want a relationship, last night’s g-string in your back pocket is not giving off the best first impression…), the lack of deodorant because you cannot steal some of his because seriously that is not just a bit unhygienic (ironic, because what you were doing the night before was sanitary?!) and boys’ deodorant smells like boy – a dead give away to the cute paramedic even if he did not check your back pocket and just assumed you enjoy going commando. And my favorite – the glossy sheen your hair takes after a night of carnal sex and sweaty, drunken half-assed sleep.

But again, the pros outweigh the cons as a single 31 year old who has been told she is in her sexual prime. (Which, incidentally, is depressing. This is it? Really, I am just getting started and it is supposed to go downhill from here on out?) Unless all you get are the cons – like I was subjected to this week. Twice!!!

The first such unnecessary miles were clocked Thursday morning after the Wednesday night riots in Vancouver.  The media attributed the cause to the Vancouver Canucks losing the Stanley Cup in Game 7 AGAIN! But I know better, it is because men in this city are mostly douche bags. Wednesday night was another shining example of why I am single in this city. Seriously, the highlight of the evening was picking out cheese at Urban Fair with an out-of-town friend who jokingly tried to incite a riot by pretending to throw a sweet potato. Yeah, we are total rebels.  Seriously, Vancouver’s jack asses were setting cars on fire, destroying store fronts, and looting, and I was trapped downtown because all bus service was stopped.  Luckily, a friend put me up for the night. Yet at 10am the next morning with the sheen on my head acting as a solar panel I completed my walk of shame. And though it was enjoyable to spend time with friends watching our city get destroyed, it was definitely not worth the Thursday morning inconveniences.

The second walk of shame was actually more painful than the first, as a result of the amount of alcohol I chose to consume the evening before. The day started out innocently enough. We attended a soccer game, then some après drink fun followed by more après après drinks. It was when my lovely married friend Lucy (whose husband was out of town) and Mr. Sweet Potato from Wednesday night decided to take the party back to Lucy’s and continue drinking after the bars closed that I realized another pro-lacking walk of shame was imminent. This lasted until 5am. I am actually floored that I lasted that long because, like the faux princess I am, I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.  Now, as a result of my current financial situation with the firm (and despite the many double Grey Goose and sodas I had consumed), I opted to save money and not grab a $50 cab ride home at 5am. No, I chose to wait to take the bus in the morning for $2.50. Responsibility is painful and anyone who tells you differently is a liar.

Lucy, bless her heart, put me up, and although her generosity is unparallel and she is quite hot and hilarious, I was still not inclined to spoon. Yes, she was letting me share her marital bed while hubby was away, but, as previously reported, I have deep-seated daddy issues and I do not like to be touched! (Come to think of it, my fear of intimacy may be the reason I have no problem with the walk of shame – I should bring this up with Dr. Phil when he has me on the new OWN network for his feature on “Insecure Girls with Daddy Issues - the Reason Why Charlie Sheen is Still Getting Laid”…) The last time I slept over, she attempted to cop a feel and I kicked her. She has yet to let me live it down, claiming she forgot I was there rather than her husband, being sure to point out the bruise even weeks later. To top off the touching, Lucy snores – all cons to the impending cons to come at 9am when I ventured home on the bus. 

I do realize that I did leave out a major inconvenience of the walk of shame, which is the SHAME; however, I feel it is implied (what with the word being in the name). And shame is definitely what I felt on the bus that morning when the bus driver smirked at me with that “I know what you did last night!” look. BUT I DIDN’T! And that was the Shame! 

Needless to say, I went home to sleep and spent the rest of the day eating greasy food hoping that Monday brought new promise – hence this post being a day late. Please forgive me?! The lateness was for all readers’ benefit. Because if I wrote this yesterday, it would have gone something like this … shower? Too far … what is that smell … crap that is me … am I sober enough to drive to McDonalds?

Love Klassy Kass