Life In The City

Dear Blogger

2007-05-14T09:40:00.000-04:00

By the time you read this, I’ll be long gone. I’m sorry for doing this but… Ok I’m really not. I know this might come as a bit of a surprise to you – especially because I’ve been hiding at the bottom of a bottle of Pinoit Grigo. But I’m sorry – I just need a change (read: improvement). I think you’re swell, but I don’t think we’re right for each other.

First of all, we’re not compatible. You’re a basic, everyday ordinary kitchen spatula blog, and I’m beyond that. You like simple lay-outs and not letting me upload blog skins and enjoy making me re-type entries on a weekly basis, and I don’t like any of these things. Your favourite colours are drab and boring, and your favourite layouts are all the same. Do you even know what my favourite colour and layouts are? I once asked you what colour YOU’D think I’d like and you said ‘error’.

Anyway, I want to move on. I have moved on. But you know what? I still want to be friends… of a friend. We can totally talk once a year. We had some good times, or so you told me, but please, don’t be bitter like last time. That means no crying this time!! And look – I won’t even make an issue out of the time you owe me.

So take care of yourself – and good luck.

Love always,

Carrie

http://carieinthecity.wordpress.com

The Good Mascara

2007-05-07T12:21:00.000-04:00

Now before I start anything, I must admit that I am not one to deny myself ‘the good stuff’ – be it clothing, shoes, food or wine. I figure that if I have to spend money on necessities of daily living (and all above are truly necessary) you may as well spend that little bit more for the best. So has been my mantra since I got my first part time job at the tender age of 16 but until recently there was one aspect of my necessities that I still felt a bit guilty for over-indulging in.

Make up.

Before I turned 16 the only make up I truly owned was a silver eye liner I purchased from the dollar store for one of my schools famous Electric Circus dances that, as a 8th and 9th grader, was ecstatic and excited to finally be able to attend. However with the move to a new school with higher expectations all around, I began to meander at the make up counters at The Bay and Sears, wondering if what those girls spent hours on in the change room putting on their face really made a difference. Not to mention that with said-make up on their faces in public I felt pretty plain, and on bad days ugly, in comparison – which didn’t make any sense to me then and now, because their beauty was store bought and, along with all the time spent making themselves up, was washed away at the end of the day. But me being me - young and naïve – still went to the mall one day after school to ‘follow the trend’ and try and fit in.

So again, at the tender age of 16, I bit the bullet and purchased my first non-drug store piece of make up. Still missing my high school of choice I opted to stop at the MAC make up counter for whatever it was that I needed. Now I was never good at applying anything to my face, so I stuck with the absolute basic: concealer. Thanks to my mother’s south pacific ageless skin, foundation and powder were unnecessary and not to mention expensive for a 16 year olds budget!! So I settled for paying the (at the time) outrageous price of 17$ for a mini-tub/pot of concealer and rushed home, nervous and excited, to put it on. The gentleman behind the counter wasn’t too helpful in the application process – basically he just said put it on under your eyes using your finger. Now, me having 10 fingers to choose from (I am ambidextrous – writing with my right hand but highlighting and doing everything else under the sun with my left hand) and no concept whatsoever in proper application – I fussed about in my bathroom trying to ‘blend in’ the streaks of medium beige cream that I had scooped out of the little and seemingly endless pot.

It honest to God took me about a week to get the concealer just right, but boy oh boy was it ever worth it! All of a sudden the bags underneath my eyes disappeared, my eyes ‘popped’ with the illusion of wakefulness, and of course, the boys started paying a bit of attention to the short brown no longer plain but still average looking brunette in the growing heard of tall blonde skinny beauties that roamed their hallways. And to this day I have never ever left my house with at least a hint of concealer under my eyes – or for days when it’s truly a struggle - sunglasses.

It wasn’t until the tender age of 21, so less than a year ago, was I introduced to true ‘grown up’ make up. After being a loyal MAC girl for so long, my co-worker friend who used to work with said ‘grown-up’ make up, almost wrung my neck when I told her I was a) still using MAC concealer and b) I hadn’t replaced it in almost a year and a half. Hm – apparently that’s bad. Anyway with a bit of arm twisting and threatening I switched from MAC to Make Up Forever and added expensive mascara (DiorShow Unlimited) to my repertoire that, thankfully, I could still only spend 5 minutes on my face as I rush out the door.

And I’ve never looked back… that is, until a few days ago.

It had been over 6 months (which apparently in the make up world is sacrilegious) since I had replaced both my concealer and my mascara. I didn’t mind replacing the concealer, since I used it every day… but I was having the worst time actually throwing away the DiorShow tube – its beautiful navy blue colour with silver lettering was just too nice to all of a sudden stop using. But then I realized – I wasn’t upset because it was so pretty, or that I had spent 23$ on mascara that I was throwing away… I was upset because, in the 6+ months I had it in my possession… I had only used it, at most, once or twice a week. And that is being generous.

I sat back in my chair at work contemplating this very notion – not just of mascara, but of everything in general. I know plenty of people that save those ‘special’ items, be it China, a dress, shoes, make up… for special occasions only – however most times those special moments are few and far between or at worst, nonexistent. I was saving my DiorShow mascara for true occasions: nights out, dinners, dances… but with my schedule dedicated to nursing and work, I never really had the chance to feel that extra bit pretty, or take that extra care of myself just for the hell of it. I had ‘every day’ mascara, you know, the kind you get for 6$ at the drug store, that had been used more often than the DiorShow for no other reason than it was cheaper. And now I had to let it go – bacteria growth and clumping had started so rationally it was best to get rid of it before problems arise – before it had the chance to reach its full potential, or at least, reach half way down the tube?

While I was waiting for Vegas to pick me up from a night of shopping I meandered over to the Dior counter at the Bay, where the lovely manager assisted me in the purchase of my new mascara – DiorShow with shimmer. As I put my credit card down to pay for the mascara and lip gloss (what can I say? J’adore Dior!)I made a promise to myself that, no matter what day it was, no matter what I was doing, and no matter how foolish I felt, I would wear the good mascara and get as much out of it as I had put in. Which got me thinking… that if I can start at mascara, I ought to extend that sense of living the good life to everything before it’s too late. I mean, I can replace mascara without looking foolish, but I can’t replace this time of my life later on because I was ‘saving’ it too for something special. It already is something special, or at the very least can be. All I need to do is seize the chance.

Oh, and to put on the good mascara.

Say Goodbye

2007-05-01T00:17:00.000-04:00

Heading homeward, but tell me what becomes of us?

Last night I said goodbye to The American. We had spoken some words few and far between since the last time I saw him - My friends and others had reiterated to The American that I was a taken woman and my dwindling presence at the gym hinted at a nervous mind and an uneasy heart. I had made up my mind to be with Vegas - and not just anyone, not even this old-school romantic soldier could sway my decision. But I admit there was still something about him that made my breath laboured and my heart beat just a moment faster. I didn't know what was going to happen when I stepped out of the change room after an hour of choeographed weights with my instructor friend, but as I saw him sitting on the couch waiting to say goodbye I knew that a final conversation was going to be had.

It was a warm evening - (with the exception of the wind) and temperate for this city - so I elected to walk home. In my normal pace on a night where my winter jacket was but a burden on my arm I could have made it home in 15 minutes. However with The American by my side until I said otherwise, we meandered through the city admiring its beauty, knowing that he may never see the city, or me, ever again.

I asked him why he would ever want to move here. Not that I dislike this city - it's lovely. It is and forever will be my home - or at least, the closest thing to home I've ever had. It's just being an American soldier and having the opportunity to travel to far and distant places to see breathtaking and history-laden sights, why chose just one to remain in for the rest of your life? His response? "I was just always drawn to Canada; and now I know why."

I didn't ask for his 'why' - not because in my heart of hearts I knew his answer, but because it wasn't mine to know. The American was leaving for a mission not 2 days long before flying to Europe for a month and then, well, who knows? He was obviously energized and nervous but at the same time sad to leave; after dropping me off he was heading to a local martini bar to say goodbye to other friends he had met in his short time in the city. I wasn't going - it didn't seem right. But at the same time not saying goodbye didn't seem right as well. Without knowing or caring what my past was, The American thought of and treated me like a lady - even when it was evident that he would not get what he wanted from me. So on a park wall 5 blocks away from my apartment, after walking and talking for what seemed like forever, we stopped to speak.

The conversation started as I had imagined: the easy banter between strangers was seguayed by The American mentioning that one day, in the future, I would make one man very lucky and very happy. I dropped my head and looked away, saying thank you but in the middle of my sentence, as if out of a scene from Gone With The Wind, The American lifted me off the ground, effortlessly, and placed me on top of the wall I was leaning against. Startled but grateful that I was able to rest for a while I continued to speak, confiding in The American that Vegas had hurt me in the past. Startled, he asked why I had let him back into my life, and as I began to contemplate my answer he took off his sweater and folded it up and placed it next to me. He mentioned that while he too cared deeply for his ex's, that he would give her his last dime, it didn't mean that he would ever think to let her back into his life the way she used to be, let alone his heart. Before I could give him my response - in fact, just as I was about to open my mouth - he placed his arms under my knees and my back and lifted me onto his sweater, mentioning that it was never good to sit on something so cold.

After that gesture of kindness that was as unexpected as it was overwhelming to my heart - I wanted to cry because my answer didn't change. The American's 'dream' of whisking me away and giving me everything I wanted, all the while being the officer and gentleman I dreamed of as a little girl in my mothers high heels couldn't remove the face of Vegas that was and is on my heart. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and with my hands in my lap and my face to the moon I gave him my answer - one I've given many a times to friends and strangers when I let them know that Vegas and I are back together, but until last night did I truly understand the meaning behind the words I speak.

"If I made a mistake like that, and I was truly sorry, I'd want to be forgiven. I can not expect to receive that kind of love, the love that I want, if I am unwilling to give it first."

The American was silent. I could sense an understanding and a level of respect eminating from him, even before he started to speak. "You have a good heart - too good", he said, "but you're a good woman." He nodded his head as he lifted me off the wall and placed me back on solid ground.

We said goodbye shortly after that. In a final attempt to sway my heart The American proclaimed that if I ever wished to see him again, if there was ever a chance that he could call me his woman, that all I had to do was tell him and he would make it happen. I nodded - and told him to be safe. After a kiss on the forehead and a first and final hug, I walked away from my American soldier without a phone number, an email, or even a last name.

I believe that every person we meet, have met, and will ever meet, has a lesson for us to learn. I had asked The American why he thought he had met me, and although I disagree with his interpretation of the events from this month, I know the lesson that The American taught me. Perhaps it is the offshoot of the Sexual Revolution, but the fact is until now, for 22 years of my life, I had never been treated as well as I was by The American. In his mind a lady deserved to be treated as a lady, no matter how she decides to act. I may disagree with the last part, but thanks to The American I no longer have any reason or excuse to not act, or more importantly treat myself, like a lady. I'm not saying that I wish to convert back to a chauvinistic view of male and female roles, but damn did it ever feel good to be viewed and treated like a lady, and I'd like to keep that feeling going - even if it's only by myself.

So... While this may not be the happily-ever-after ending I once dreamed about as a little girl in my mothers high heels, but as a 22 year old girl in my own high heels - it's an ending that I am happy with. And in the end that's all that matters.

Biceps & Bigots

2007-04-27T10:32:00.000-04:00

I see you lookin' at me/like I'm some kind of freak

The one thing that I really liked about my gym – the very same one I frequent on an almost daily basis, is the fact that the majority of its members are quite often too busy staring at themselves to pay attention to anyone else, i.e. me. It was my place to just disappear into the music and choreography to emerge sweaty, red and victorious without worrying what I look like before, during or after my session. I had left my university gym for this one permanently in 2003 when the stark reality of college life hit me: I just couldn’t stand going into the change room to watch my fellow females put on copious amounts of makeup to work out while I did my best to tame my unwashed-uncombed hair into a ponytail with water and 2 super-strength elastics. Now I understand that not all women are like this: there are plenty out there who just want to get in and get out of the gym, do their thing without being ogled by men and sneered at by other women, but to me it seemed that the aforementioned were few and far between at the university and boy did I ever feel ugly and out of place.

Hence – this gym. An avid loyal customer of 6+ years I had happily gone about my business without the slightest hint of disrespect from my fellow gym-goers. I mean, aren’t we all there for the same reason? Well, maybe not the mirror image exact same reason, but similar reasons nonetheless. Anyway perhaps I was just naïve, or blind until recently, as I’ve noticed and been informed that not all gym-goers keep their eyes or mouths to themselves. Let me tell you ladies and gents – you may think you're being cleaver in your insults but your body and eyes give you away.

More than once, twice, three times I’ve walked past women who felt so inclined to make a snotty comment. About what, you ask? Just me. I admit I am a fit female, only because I frequent that very same gym at least 4 times a week to do cardio and weights. The only time I can admit to ‘showing off’ is laundry day when all my pants are unfit to work out in and I must wear my bike shorts to a weight lifting class. Ladies, don’t think I am oblivious to your catty eyes and judgmental facial expressions. I see you looking at me with those “ugh what a show-offy bitch” eyes – but as the song goes, why don’t you do something? I only look fit because I am fit; because I work for it. To me it doesn’t make much sense to chastise someone for working hard and achieving their goals. How does that make achieving yours any easier? I mean, will your bitchiness magically erase 10 pounds of heart-hazardous fat from your body and transplant it on to mine? No – I didn’t think so either. So save your stares for those women out there who truly do not have to exercise for 7 hours a week to maintain their ideal weight and figure and let me exercise in peace.

Don’t worry men; I haven’t forgotten about you. I notice you as well just as I’m sure you notice me. Most men at my gym are quite fine. They are too engrossed in their weights or cardio to pay attention to anything else, or they are busy comparing themselves to bigger, stronger or faster men as a motivational tool to in turn make them bigger, stronger or faster. But there are some of you out there who are cursed with verbal diarrhea, or perhaps Tourettes, which makes you so inclined to say whatever pops up in your brain or somewhere else on your ripped and vicious anatomy. I am not going to repeat what I hear you say, but trust me: I hear it. And I don’t like it. My sole intent and purpose for going to the gym is not to provide you with eye-candy entertainment, a walking visual image you can fantasize about – ‘getting her for one night’ or worse. I understand that the aerobics class that resembles a dance-hall atmosphere is entertaining to watch, but I and the rest of the participants are not doing it solely for your pleasure. No – we’re doing it for our pleasure. The pleasure of movement, of music, of knowing that you’re exercising without feeling like you’re exercising. Yes you can watch us, but seriously; stop standing outside of the studio making comments on how well we’d do after the music stops. It’s not funny – it’s insulting.

This won’t stop me from going to the gym. In fact I’m going tonight. But at the same time it still sucks knowing that the place I once thought to be judgment free – if only because the people who’d judge you were too busy judging themselves – turned out to be just like any other place. I know that it’s human nature to judge but c’mon; at the very least we can keep our judgments to ourselves, lest we be judged and overhear it too.

PS: The only thing that has (almost) stopped me from going to the gym is The American. No he hasn't vanished from my radar just yet. But he is leaving in 3 days...

Merci beaucoup!!

2007-04-24T23:04:00.000-04:00

First off I would like to thank God for all the gifts She and He have bestowed on me - namely the brain currently exploding with a mish-mash of pathophysiology medical-medical-bullshit-bullshit - for somehow filtering out the words that you are reading right now.

Speaking of which, I would also like to thank Mr. WriteNow who bestowed on me the lovely award you see above. I haven't been blogging for long, nor have I had such a big audience besides my mom and my girlfriends who only read when they were bored at work, so it is truly truly an honour (I'm not be facitious) to be recognized for my blog in an (internet) full of incredible, note-worthy, publish-worthy, thought-worthy, laugh-worthy blogs that have come before and will come after lil' old mine.

And as a recent recepiant of the thinking blogger award, it is my absolute pleasure to introduce you to 5 blogs that make me stop, think, smile, recoil, laugh, cry, and everything in between. BUT first of all I must must say - it was exceptionally hard picking just 5, as each and every blogger that I have on my roll has made me think. Luckily most of them have already been honoured!!

DT: the life and times of a twenty-something --> Not too long ago I was found by DT, or did I find him? Either way, DT's was the very first blog I was hooked on when I started Life In The City. His writing style was fluid and poised but down-to-Earth and funny - like I was having a weekly coffee with an old friend, each of us catching up on the others lives. DT's one of the good guys, at least in my opinion, and he's intelligent and funny and a fantastic story-teller. Although he may not post as much as I want him to- when he does it is worth the wait.

The Exception --> There is truly only one word I can use to describe this blog: Incredible, but imagine me saying it with a French accent, it is that good. Like dark chocolate and red wine good. The Exception makes me think - on topics I ponder about on a daily basis, and more importantly, on topics I never would have imagined thinking about. I think she is a teacher and if so I wouldn't be surprised, for I learn something or am inspired to learn something from every post of hers that I have had the pleasure of reading.

Calling it Carpe Diem --> The first 'local' blog that I was drawn in to; I can't really explain my attraction to this blog, besides the authors honesty in her writing and her ability to draw you into a story, even if it's just about steak or those glorious sleepovers we as girls get to experience. I've never met her, probably won't, but more likely than not passed her non-chalantly on the streets of our city - but through her writing she could very well be your best friend.

Ruby: Destination Unknown --> Straight and funny and to the point - Ruby's posts are as thoughtful as her comments that she leaves in yours. I was drawn in by her humour and stayed for her honesty and haven't looked back. I have a feeling that she's already been mentioned, as she should be, so it's not that I have less to say about you Ruby!!!!

Beth: Pink Lace and Pearls --> It was her last post that really really made me think (and as bloggers it's a question I am glad she raised), but to be fair, I was hooked on her blog because it made me think and inspired many a post from yours truly. I love it when I read and am inspired and on more than 1,2,3 occasions Beth has done this for me - and on those days when you have no idea what to write but just feel the need to write, her insights are a welcome ray of sunshine.

On that note - I enjoy each and every single blog that is on my roll, so if you see one that isn't on yours go read! I can't remember who I found first, I think it was brandy, but that's how I've managed to find all the blogs I read on an almost-daily basis. HOWEVER before I go, because there is always a however, Kyla Bea just started her newest blog (I think) - and I believe that given more time, I'd bestow on her the thinking blog award. GO read!

Something it's not

2007-04-22T11:24:00.000-04:00

I can only give you everything I've got...

Last Friday, yesterday in fact, I was at work - a company that I've been a part of for the better of three years. During my time here I've had the pleasure of meeting some incredible people - some people that I still keep in touch with despite them leaving for bigger and better opportunities. Last summer I was introduced to my still-co worker now, let's call her "Rebecca", and she and I became fast friends. We thought alike, spoke alike, had the same interests, same sense of humour, hell even similar pasts (THAT was the freaky part). Anyways Rebecca and I soon exchanged cell phone numbers and had many a lunch date that reflected our similar interests and the friendship seemed to be off to a swimming start.

The introduction to other new co-workers, 1 in particular, let's call her "Addie" made for some interesting conversations, ideas and of course, outings. One night in the summer, I'm guessing it was sometime back in August or maybe September... I'm guessing August as it was still warm enough to go out clubbing without jackets and I wasn't buried under a mountain of schoolwork. Anyway one night in the summer, after Addie and I and my friend Chris had been drinking since around 5:15 pm - we ended up at a bar in the heart of the Market. It was the same night that ended with me being followed by the handsome stranger from Montreal that I had been dancing with on-and-off during the night; some parts were getting pretty hot, others not so much. It was a crowded dance floor, I was drunk, and having a good time. So was Addie, who managed to get drinks from almost every single available man on the floor. Rebecca had arrived late and as such was nowhere near as tipsy as the rest of us were, and since she is engaged she declined to, well, engage, in the flirtation game that Addie and I were so enjoying.

The night ended and we all went our seperate ways - but back at the office when our co-workers who declined to join us asked for details, they were stymied with our pact of "If you weren't there; you weren't there" - kind of like "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas".

That is.. until Friday at lunch.

I can't even recall where and how this night came up, but near the end of lunch after we had regalled some tame moments of the night, Rebecca thought it to be funny to look me straight in the eye and say "I saw Carrie give this guy a lapdance".

I could feel the fire in my cheeks turn my brown skin red as the entire table of co-workers, many of which I respect and respected me (punctuation on purpose) turned in shock and surprise, their eyes searching for an explination or an adament rejection of something so terrible coming from such a sweet girl as myself. I took a breath and paused - unable to recall the specifics of the evening with the weight of embarassment crushing my shoulders and my chest. In fact I don't think I even had the mindset to defend myself as I was so shocked that Rebecca, someone I had considered one of my friends moreso than co-workers, would so publically and openly paint me with a scarlet brush.

Knowing that I had mere seconds to defend myself I admitted that I did dance with the guy; he was a good dancer. We danced most of the evening. And I do remember grinding with this guy - and I do remember that one moment he was standing and the next he was sitting; but we were still dancing and his hands were still on my hips. But the way that she said it made it seem, and the looks on my other co-workers faces support my interpretation of her interpretation, that I was practically naked and straddeling him, front to back, on a high-rising stage, suggestively moving my hips and body just for his pleasure and enjoyment. I don't know about you, but when someone says 'lapdance' I picture something along the lines of a strip club with a practically naked professional grinding front and back, stuffing some man's face into her ample clevage where he leaves dollar bills. And let me tell you - that was NOT what happened.

I was dancing with him. That is all. It was a crowded and packed dance floor with little space to breathe, let alone dance. It was around 1:00 am, so we were tired. I remember my legs hurting and being grateful to sit for a little bit - it just so happened to be on his CLOTHED lap. But that's not what Rebecca, and now the rest of the company, thinks. Now I'm a whore, or at the very least, less respected than I was before.

And for that - I'm insulted. I'm insulted that Rebecca, someone I had considered to be more of a friend, would embarass and insult me so publically and so non-chalantly, like it was comperable to proclaiming what colour my shirt was that day. She did it without a moments hesitation; knowing that her interpretation and her delivery was both excessive and painted a far worse picture of yours truly than what the truth revealed. And, of course, how this will inevitably degenerate into me turning tricks on the guy on stage completely naked, and then going home with him, and me waking up with 400$ next to the bedside.

Half of me wishes to get even; for my little 'show' as she puts it is nowhere NEAR as slutty as her on Halloween - slutty enough to get her fiance mad enough at her.. mad enough to leave the bar with her jacket and keys... all without telling her. Slutty enough for her to destroy all the pictures of her, the majority of them capturing her signature dance move of bending over to anything and anyone. Slutty enough for her to be on Facebook, tagged as the "naughty nurse" with her leg around strangers, guys and girls, without hesitation.

But the other half of me ... doesn't. 2 wrongs don't make a right, and although Rebecca chooses to be my very own US magazine, telling stories with partial truths to get the attention and fame she desperately needs... it's not my style for me to do it to her, or anyone for that matter. I don't judge; the very next day after her tryst at the bar on Halloween I met her for a day of shopping as she didn't want to deal with her fiance; I continued to go out with her for a few drinks here and there; I participated in her Secret Santa exchange; I booked her graduation dinner; hell, I even gave her a free week of tanning at my former roommates place of employment. And this is how she shows her friendship to me, by bad-mouthing me with half truths to my peers?

I decided to keep my mouth shut in and outside the lunchroom - shaking my head and rolling my eyes. I tried my very best to not get bent out of shape for a night that happened almost 9 months ago when clearly, without going into detail, there were others in the room, Rebecca included, who acted worse than I at company functions - not something on their own personal time. And I will not share the story of Halloween to anyone else but her if I decide to confront her for Friday's lunch; I take no pleasure in telling other peoples stories and spreading rumours and lies - because if you do that too often, soon enough you'll run out of people to have stories to tell about.

But herein lies the question: do I confront her, and if I do, what do I say? How do you tell someone that they've betrayed you, that what they said - although it was in public and yes they did see it, was both uncalled for and particularily cruel... Something you would expect from an acquaintance that you didn't really get along with as supposed to someone you consider a friend?

I think that the fact that I even have to confront her - that this has to happen, is what's making me so sad. I guess I'm not used to friends doing that to each other.

At Dawn

2007-04-19T10:51:00.000-04:00

(Photo: Corbis)

… this is not what I do, it's the wrong time, for somebody new

I was thinking about The American after not seeing or talking to him for days. He was constantly on my mind – like a shadow on my conscience you know is there but can’t quite catch as it disappears from your view. The initial shock and awe was wearing off, the romantic ideas of being swept away and cared for falling back to the reality of my future and what plans I had made and ideals I want to live up to. But the way that he was in my thoughts wasn’t as I expected. There was no rhyme or reason for me to be thinking of him – I just was. And that got me to wonder, was this the famous ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other sensation that Ms. Bradshaw was talking about? But more importantly was the question, do I even want it?

When I take a step (or 5) back to contemplate this entire situation the attraction that I have to The American and the attraction that he has to me is completely irrational. I have no idea who he is, what he does, how he is, where he is going, what he wants or how he plans to get it. He met me a week ago and already has planned our entire future together and is ready and willing, and has even put into motion moving to my city. He claims that I am “the One” to me, to my friends, to anyone who would listen. And when I found that out – reality hit. The romantic ideal, the movie-script come to life feeling quickly fell into the familiar sense of fear that I have of men who, at the beginning, place you on a pedestal only to one day place you in a cage. When viewed through the lens of scientific rationalization – The American seems to be a man who would use my compassion against me and my need for love as a way to control me.

Perhaps I am being paranoid – but in this day and age of the dating/relationship game you have to be. The lines that defined a relationship that were once clearly drawn have been blurred or even erased by the actions of both men and women who were either in a relationship, in an affair, or hell in both. Apparently the term ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’ may not always mean exclusivity… I mean, I had to spell out for my friends what ‘seeing – dating – relationship’ meant to clarify that I wasn’t a whore. Sure; I admit that I told The American that I wasn’t getting married. I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I am fair game to any and all potential suitors that got it into their heads that this Manolo-lite is "the One". Now my interest in the opposite sex is for friendship and friendship alone; I shouldn’t have to stop being my polite, friendly and funny self to men just because there are some out there who cannot control their raging emotions, or those men out there who believe that if a pretty girl is nice to you it is actually an invitation to get in her yoga pants.

I have a boyfriend. I know I wrote about taken-attraction in a tongue-and-cheek fashion, but now with The American it went from being funny to being ridiculous. The American knows that I have someone in my life – someone special, someone I know, someone I (will again) trust, someone I care deeply for and who cares deeply and truly for me. As romantic and adventurous and exciting as it would be, at least in my mind, to run off with The American – my body says differently. It says ‘hell no!’. I don’t know about you, but I believe that your body is the most beautiful thing you will ever possess in your entire life, save for that awesome pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. I say this because I found my mind being tricked into this imaginary Hollywood-story while my body stayed steadfast in its ‘no way nuh-uh not while I’m warm and alive’ opinion. As the song goes, my hips don’t lie and I’m starting to feel nervous.

My instructor friend and her boyfriend gave The American the old "If you love/care for something let it go" speech, which got me thinking; if you never really had something, how can you let it go? Granted The American had me going for a while – that is, until I left to see Vegas on Sunday. I admit I thought of The American during my visit with Vegas – but when I compared the two side by side, Vegas won the battle hands down.

The only positive thing that I have realized throughout this entire ordeal with The American is that although Vegas and I had and will have our issues… Vegas is actually a decent guy. His level of jealousy and possessiveness has not crossed over to the dark side – He’s attentive without being overbearing, he’s interested without being obsessed, and he’s eager without being controlling… that is, unless I want him to be. I understand that I could have another man in minute but a guy like Vegas, a guy willing to admit over and over that he messed up and is walking the walk of action to prove he’s sorry… that kind of guy isn’t so irreplaceable. As charming and wonderful as The American has made himself out to be - he's actually taught me - or brought to my attention, inadvertantly - that Vegas is one of the good ones, which I guess means I am one of the lucky ones.

Even if I have men falling at my feet.

Into the Fire

2007-04-17T12:48:00.000-04:00

... from one extreme to another

I'm going to school. University, I guess. Granted I am nowhere near Virginia, nor was I nowhere near Dawson College back in September. I am in no way, shape or form related to Virgina Tech or Dawson College, save for living in Montgomery County back in the 90s. But I am a student - I am a part of the university and college community here,there and everywhere.

And I'm going to school.

Back in September my college issued a statement regarding the Dawson College rampage, saying that they had a contingency plan in case of emergencies like this. Which got me thinking then and now - after waking up to the news on the radio, on the television, on the front covers of the Citizen, Sun, Metro, and 24 (hours & heures)... how sad it is that in 2007 we even have to have a plan in place for the potential of mass murder in an institution for higher learning. It just doesn't make any sense to me...

But I have an exam to write today - much like those students did too. And I am not going to let the images and talk of fear prevent me from getting my degree... or getting anything else in life that I really want. So I am going to school; and I am going to the gym; and I am going.

I hope you are too.

Dazed and Confused

2007-04-14T01:57:00.000-04:00

Whenever I’m caught in the middle of a predicament like this, or whenever I really needed some alone time; time to think and sort out my thoughts, I used to go to the gym. I mean, I pay for it every 2 weeks so might as well use it. This particular gym, more specifically the classes it runs, was the place I went to after Vegas and I ended our engagement – it kept me moving when my world fell apart and gave me a sense of purpose, enough to get me out of bed and to work. And now, 3 years later, I am a fully fledged addict. I’ve met many of my friends and acquaintances through the gym, and I’ve brought along and addicted many of my friends to the exercise classes and ambiance of the gym-going world. Basically, it was home away from the hospital.

However with the arrival of The American… I’m finding it difficult to go. Since the last time we spoke, conveniently at the gym, it seems as if every single word that rolls out of his mouth makes it so hard for me to step inside a once familiar and welcoming environment - like entering your childhood home after it's been sold and remodeled by perfect strangers. A part of you knows that it is the same building; the same structure, the same memories; but a part of you knows that something is missing.

Let me explain; last night I saw The American - saw, not spoke - briefly in between my classes. I had left for the evening and spent a little time meandering around the mall until I realized that I had left my necklace somewhere in the change room. Now this particular necklace, although picked out by Philippe and purchased by my mother, has significant sentimental value to me. It is a teardrop moonstone and both the shape and particular stone is very difficult to find; it truly is one of a kind. The problem is I had managed to avoid speaking to The American that evening, only because I was still in shock and awe to his very existence – and the fact that I had spoken to Vegas not 2 hours ago about my impending visit. Perhaps I felt guilty, or nervous, or both, however the outcome was still the same: I didn’t know what to say or how to act. But knowing that my necklace had mere hours to sit before someone with a keen eye and fabulous taste in jewellery decided to make it their own I had no other choice but to go back. So with a deep breath and cautious step, I re-entered my gym to retrieve my necklace.

The American was sitting at a table outside of the yoga studio – which just so happens to be right beside the entrance to the ladies locker room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watch me walk down the stairs, so an all-out avoidance tactic was completely out of the question. He was surprised to see me back – he didn’t expect me to return, although I instantaneously clarified that it was for my necklace. I asked him why he was seemingly waiting, as he was neither jumping rope nor lifting weights, and he said that he was going to dinner with my instructor friend after yoga. He asked if I would stay for a chat after retrieving my necklace, and under the impression that he was waiting for my friend, I agreed to sit with him for the remainder of the class.

I wish I hadn’t.

The American started the conversation by asking me how my day was. Fine, I thought, as small talk between strangers that is usually a good place to start. He began to drop hints as to what he actually does as a job – not that I can explain what he does. (I’m not being coy. Honestly I have no idea what he does). He mentioned that, at 31 and in the service since 19, he was beginning to get the urge to settle down as so many of his colleagues were doing. The work he does is dangerous, at least from the bits and pieces he’s told me, and as much as it is his ‘honour’ to serve his country, if he found the right woman he would stop. He would give up the service, the one thing he loved in the world for a woman… And apparently that woman is me.

I turned away at that point and took a deep and audible breath. After meeting some men in the military I could somewhat understand his eagerness to remove himself from the dangers of service and the anonymity of his existence. I can only guess that living an extraordinary life for so long, the urge of normalcy when presented is too much to dismiss so quickly. However it was still rash; I mean, The American had just just met me, and now he was willing to give up his career and life for a girl he scarcely knows? To me it just didn’t make any sense: I mean, what would he do? And more importantly, and I had to ask this question, what makes him think I want that?

To that he responded “Picture this” and as I closed my eyes The American started to tell me a story… about how he'd take care of me from the second I walked in the door after a long day at work. How I’d walk in the door, tired beyond belief, and drop my purse to the floor, but before it even touched the ground he would catch and carry it, and me, and bring me to the living room. On the way I’d see the dinner table – perfectly laid out for a meal he’s prepared; The American would remove my shoes and socks and proceed to rub my feet as I talk about my day. Knowing that I was hungry but exhausted he would give me a strawberry smoothie to satisfy me before carrying and putting me in a milk bath to relax away the tension in my body. After dinner we’d then go for a walk before going to bed, only for him to wake up before me to prepare my breakfast and coffee and have it ready for me to go. He finished the story, or I guess I should say fairy tale, by proclaiming that he would do that for me every single day.

At this point I can barely open my eyes in fear that at any moment tears would begin to fall… so instead with my eyes closed I asked him “Won’t you get tired of it?”. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had boyfriends in the past who would make me dinner and breakfast and sit with me and talk about my day – but that usually ends once the honeymoon phase is over and the reality of fights and priorities seep into the time once occupied by romance. Also it was those very same boyfriends who seemed to only do those things for me as a way to ‘bank’ favours back in return, or hold it against me when I was unwilling to give in to their demands. Perhaps I am extra cynical after my ordeal with Philippe, but when it comes to relationships I’d rather have nothing if something is demanded in return. When I give to the one I love – no matter what – I don’t ever expect anything in return. But every man I’ve been with, I guess with the exception of Vegas, had an ulterior motive to giving me something, be it gifts, dinner, or otherwise… so I learned to live with nothing to avoid having a previous deed or favour given to me held over my head.

The American, however, proved me wrong. “No” he said, shaking his head while looking at me with sad eyes, not out of pity, but true sadness. “You never get tired of treating the one you love right.”

As I sat there in silence he continued to speak – “Listen Carrie; I know you just got back with this guy and you haven’t even been with him for a second, so I won’t come between you two. It’s just that… as my grandfather said, you will think that you are so cool, but then along comes that one woman who will make your body shake and your soul nervous… and you do that to me. But it’s like that song, ‘Hey Lover’. I’m not going to do anything… I’ll let you be – but I’ll be waiting. If he doesn’t treat you right, give me the chance to show you how good it could be.”

The class ended right on time. My instructor friend stepped out of the room, surprised to see me and The American there. After helping me with my coat and chatting with some friends, all three of us together exited the gym. My friend invited me to grab a bite afterwards, but I shook my head no, still unable to speak – my mind still processing what I had heard and imagined courtesy of The American. So I watched the two of them walk to the food court as I climbed the escalator I shook my head in wonder, moving in slow motion towards the bridge to walk home, asking myself if this was indeed my reality.

And then in my pocket I felt a vibration. Startled out of my dreams I reached into the pocket of my pink coat to retrieve my now loudly-ringing phone, wondering who could be calling me so late in the evening.

It was then when the tears finally fell from my eyes, for the person who was calling me was Vegas.

At Dusk

2007-04-11T00:16:00.000-04:00

For somebody new, it's a small crime, and I got no excuse. Is that alright?

(Photo credits: Ottawa Tourism)

It was a chance encounter. One of those moments you believe only exist in movies; an extraordinary event that somehow emerged from an ordinary day. And if you’re me, on a day when you haven’t showered since last night or washed your hair since Saturday. But it happened – and as the cliché goes, a moment in time can change your life forever.

I was at yoga one cold spring/winter evening - my usual lovely way to end a long and draining few days of class, internship and work. In the middle of the class, and in fact in the middle of my reverse triangle pose I saw out of the corner of my eye the door open and a man step in. Startled by the presence of 10 women twisting their body in unimaginable positions he apologized and left only to linger around the studio jumping rope. So focused on my poses and the peaceful pain that power yoga brings, I and the rest of the class thought nothing of it.

The class concluded and as I was packing up and leaving to go he entered the room to apologize again for barging in, except he was apologizing to me. Confused I looked over at the instructor who was coming up next to me (we are friends) and the three of us had a little conversation in which I ended up saying that he should just come in and do the class next time. And some how, some way that line started a seemingly endless conversation. At first I was standing towards the door, the next I was away from the door, then I was stretching, and then I was on the ground stretching – all while talking without pause or breaks with this mystery man. An American soldier in Canada for one month, this well cut, well mannered and well spoken gentleman and I conversed for almost an hour until he asked me the crucial question – where downtown was good to eat.

At this point I think nothing of it – Once myself a stranger in a strange land it is not uncommon for one to reach out to another who is currently in a familiar situation as once you wished someone would have done for you. I had this overwhelming feeling that he had something to say to me, so after a brief pause I let my subconscious decide and said yes to his invitation.

Now unfortunately for me and for most people around me I was in no shape to go out in public – class and the gym doesn’t count. We walked out of the gym to the street and as I tried to juggle my purse, gym bag and coat while putting said coat on, he offered to hold my bag and even carry it while I slipped on the jacket. Again I thought nothing of it, other than it was kind of him to do so. That is, until he opened the door for me, managing to beat me to the handle of the door every single time. Even when I reached for the opposite door to the one he was entering he would let go and grab the door that I was going through, saying ‘please’ as if to ask for the extreme pleasure of opening my door.

Now as a modern Manolo-lite, this of course caught me off guard. The American noticed this and asked ‘what, are you surprised when someone does something romantic?’ and honestly I am. I think it’s romantic when someone gives me a seat on the 95. The American laughed as if I was joking, which clearly I wasn’t when I didn’t return the laughter. ‘Seriously?’ he asked, half confused and half insulted. ‘Seriously.’ He shook his head as he followed me to the table with a disappointed tone in his voice. Clearly I was in for a surprise.

Before I go any further I wish to reiterate a few things to my readers: I informed The American that I was with someone; I informed him that I do not like seafood; and by my actions and future plans The American knew that I was independent, strong and didn’t need anyone to do anything for her. But that didn’t stop him from treating me like a lady in a very Old Great Britain fashion; ordering for me, listening to me, respecting me, complimenting me… And most shocking paying close attention to every little thing I did. I don’t ever think in my entire (albeit short) life have I ever had someone be so attentive to my every action or verbal/nonverbal cue as this American.

If that wasn’t enough to surprise me, the questions he followed with were. ‘So tell me’, he said, ‘Why is it that you don’t have men falling at your feet?’. ‘What?’ I replied with both my words and my facial expression, completely caught off guard by this bold and outlandish statement. To be perfectly honest with everyone, I believe myself to be a pretty average looking person. I am somewhere in the bell curve of statistics proven time and time again – nothing stunning, nothing revolting. Apparently the American thought different. He wasn’t necessarily commenting on my looks, which I may remind you that I had not washed my hair in 4 days, EVEN when going to the gym for some hard-core cardio, and my clothing selection was determined by whatever was on my floor and clean at the time. No, he was commenting on my personality; the very same personality he had met not 2 hours ago and that’s what was so attractive to him – Attractive enough, apparently, to divulge his desire to take things slowly, get to know me, get to love me, care for me, support me, be the man, the knight in shining whatever that every little girl dreams of… that I apparently dream of. Oh, and to fly me to Europe for a weekend to see him if I so wish, and if I was uncomfortable staying in his home in the States put me up in a hotel.

It was here where I thought I would faint only to wake up on my futon with my glasses on the floor, the television still on and mounds of unread/unwritten papers still dangerously overdue. Could this really be happening to me? Could the very image of a gentleman, an older gentleman whisking me away to my happily ever after even possibly be remotely true?

In complete and utter shock and awe I sat there - and apologized. I figured that through my Good Samaritan actions of a familiar face in a strange land I had mislead this American into thinking that I was his dream girl; His princess perfect. I told him that I was with someone and that I never meant to mislead him – And that I, like the rest of the twenty-something girls of my generation, had given up on the idea of a knight in shining whatever. I mean, neither of us are in to flings and he wants to continue talking to me instead of fucking-and-forgetting me… And throughout the night he continuously made it clear that he had no intention of bringing me to his bed. NO, he was more interested in rubbing my feet and then making me dinner and going for a walk to talk about my day.

I had to stop him then and there. Why, you ask? Well… Have you ever had something you thought didn’t exist suddenly appear only when you couldn’t possible have it? I couldn’t say it at the time because I thought I was caught in some sort of rift in time and space… and I was no longer sure if this vision of a perfect life remained my vision of perfect life. I mean… The American is a man looking for his Mrs. The mother of his children. His forever-and-a-day lady. At almost 10 years older than I it is his time to settle down and be with one person and one alone. But for me, at 22 and still in school? I don’t believe my time has come for the white-picket fence with my children running around after the dog in the backyard as I gaze from my kitchen while making supper for my husband. Seriously; I am not slaving through my program and at work to pay for it to become someone’s trophy Stepford wife. I have dreams. I have goals. I believe I have to do something with my life, let alone my degree! But I must admit – there is not one woman alive who doesn’t want to be swept off her feet by a strong, brave, capable man… but if she is literally swept off her feet she can no longer walk towards her own destiny; she can only be carried to another’s.

I believe in my heart of hearts that The American can and would take me away to a happily ever after… His happily ever after. But I can’t help but wonder if I go down this path, what will happen to my happily ever after? What about what I am supposed to do with my life? Am I to forget everything that I have and will work so hard to achieve? How is it possible that in order to get what I want I have to give up, well, what I want?

Not to mention that The American is only in town for a month, so there is always the idea of an expiration to this opportunity. I may never see him again or encounter someone like him again and I would have missed out on a Hollywood love story, an affair I would remember forever in letters to my grandchildren, or I guess in this day-and-age, printed out copies of this blog. Not to say that I would regret anything – Forget regret. Life is too short, and too long for that matter for any of that. The problem with a movie-like romance is that in a movie you know how it’s going to end; the script is already written, the actors paid in advance and the edit room ready to fix all flaws and unfit scenes. In life, while some may believe our history has already been recorded, there is no fast forward button or edit mode. So I don’t know what’s going to happen – but I know it will.

And I’ve never felt so alive.

Red Fridays

2007-04-06T00:04:00.000-04:00

On the road again...

I don't know if I mentioned this, but Angelica's fiance, Joe, is in the army. Not too long ago I received an email from Angelica, which is normally a happy moment of distraction in my otherwise dull and work-laden existance. Anyway it was an email saying that Joe had just received his 'posting' if you must - where he will be stationed until their wedding. And let's just say that from where he is now and where he will be, it's a bit too far for comfort - Angelica's and mine.

I've known quite a few people who have enlisted in the army, and I'm sure that everyone who reads this does as well. I don't have to rehash the wonderful sacrifices these brave men and women gladly make for the glory and love of their country and her allies, but what about the ones they leave behind? Perhaps I am biased because Angelica and I are a part of those the ones we love leave, but every member of family - whether it be biological, friendship or just plain old indescribable (read; Angelica & I) - is affected. Not only does it mean that Joe will be far away until the wedding, or that my dear friend, let's call her Marilyn, leaves for training in just under a week for her 'mission' - it means that Angelica and I will join the sisterhood of the ones they left behind.

Oh - that and after the wedding in the summer, she'll be relocating to that far away place until... well, until they're stationed somewhere else. Meaning that within the space of a year I'll be watching 3 of my greatest girlfriends leave this city to follow their dreams and begin their new lives.

And that makes me so sad.

Before I met them - I got along just fine. Well no, I lie, but I also didn't know any better. And now that I have met them I couldn't get along with out them - I can't imagine my life without them. Sure phone calls and emails and mail-love is just great - but there is just something about sleepovers, 2 am junk food runs, showing up at Angelica's falling down drunk just to manage to sober up before going to the bar, sitting in Christie's car for hours upon end talking about absolutely nothing, managing to pick up just where Marilyn and I left off as if we had seen each other every day of our lives... those somethings just can't be replaced. And I wouldn't want them to be - because those girls are irreplaceable.

I know I wrote about the awkwardness of being the Fifth Wheel (which I am sure we have all or will all experience in our lives) last time I mentioned my girlfriends, but really in the end that one night doesn't matter, or at least pales in comparison to all the love that we've shared, all the memories we've salvaged through pictures, and all the cards and gifts that are strewn across our rooms as constant reminders of the impact we've had on each others lives.

It's always painful when loved ones leave - even when you're lucky enough for them to be just a plane ride away. But you worry for them - Will they be safe? Will they find new friends? Will they forget the old ones? Will you forget them? I highly doubt that Angelica and Christie will ever be erased from my memory (or my hard drive) and I know that our friendship is strong enough to survive anything but... I guess all of you out there with girlfriends as special as these ones will understand the sensation that when they leave, it feels as if 1/3 of you is missing.

But at the same time - if you love something or someone, you let them go - and even if they don't ever permanently come back to where you were, to where Angelica, Christie and I used to be, I know they'll always be mine. Just like I'll always be theirs.

The Name Game

2007-04-03T10:27:00.000-04:00

"I have given you my soul... leave me my name."

It's a big question - one that has followed women ever since the Sexual Revolution. I first heard it in grade 6 - my science teacher, Mrs. K, introduced herself to us as Mrs. because it was too much work and way too much of a hassle to fill out the paperwork before the ceremony. This question is - of course - "Will you take your husbands name once you're married?".

In my circle of friends this question was never brought up - maybe because (for my friends) we're all 22 and marriage is the furthest thing from our minds. Maybe because we're too busy asking pertinant questions, like which dress should I wear for which formal, or where did my other shoe go, or the ever popular necklace/no necklace problem we all run in to. But maybe because all of our mothers, mine, Mackenzies, Angelicas, Christies, Nicoles and countless others - are Mrs. Every boyfriend I've ever had - his mother is a Mrs. Grandmothers too. It seems as if Mrs.' are everywhere, an inescapable future if a girl chooses to get married.

Not to say that is a bad thing - my mother says her married name often and with pride. Vegas' mother responds lovingly to my 'hello Mrs. ___' as have every mother I've addressed who took her husbands name. But when I was discussing this with Vegas and with anyone who has asked me - I am of the opinion that I should never have to take my husband's name so much as to choose to take his name - and if called Mrs. by an unsuspecting person, be able to correct them with the salutation of "Ms." followed by my last name. Not maiden name, not fathers name. My name.

For as long as I've been out in public alone - not under the shadow of my brother or with my family - teachers, friends, colleagues and others have always called me "Ms." - jokingly and seriously. With the exception of French - the term "mademoiselle" for a young lady and '"madame" for a married woman - I have been and plan on forever being, Ms. And apparently that is a problem - at least, it has been for past boyfriends and lovers and their families.

I remember one time with Philippe - I was discussing with him the potential of getting a new hockey jersey with a player's name on the back. He said i "You know what would be really hot? If you got (his last name) on the back". To which I replied "No, why the hell would I do that?". "Why not?" He asked, insulted that I would dare to reject his name. "Well", I replied, "a) You don't play for the team, b) I'm not your wife and don't plan on being your wife and c) It's not my name. If I were to get my name on the back of MY jersey it would be MY name and no one elses". Clearly this started a fight, but really - when were we not fighting?

But most recently it has been with Vegas. When I mentioned the previous story and how I'd never take on someone elses name - at most I would hyphen but still sign legal documents Ms. - he too didn't understand this. Now my stance on the Ms. subject has not changed since we were dating back in high school. When I reminded him of this, he responded "Well, I thought you would have changed your mind."

Isn't that some men in a nutshell?

I get that in Vegas' family it is 'tradition' for the wife to take the husbands name. My mother did it - my grandmother did it- and I'm pretty sure my great-grandmother did it too. However, this is 2007: and I've never been good at following, or at least, I've managed to follow until I can lead. As much as I adore Vegas' family - I am not willing to forego my family of origin if Vegas' doesn't have to as well. Gone are the days when the wife was a piece of property to be exchanged between one man and another. Isn't it now "husband and wife" instead of "man and wife", implying maybe a hint of equality? So why the name game? Why is it when I chose to keep my own name after being able to chose if and whom I marry do I come out as the bad guy?

In a relationship I understand that I will eventually have to compromise. A lot. Kids, 'home', education, hell even religion - meaning I'd accept yours but never convert from mine. But my name stays. For me - my name is my identity. It is the one thing in this world that defines me and my accomplishments - my struggles, my past, my achievements, my potential. Why would I willingly give up my greatest sense of independence in exchange for the title of 'someone's'?

I retorted back to Vegas, to Philippe, to each man I've dated: "Take my name" - and boy oh boy were they insulted beyond belief. Laughter, pity-looks and dismissals galore. "Degrading, isn't it?", I replied, "that you'd take my name." So why am I supposed to be overjoyed at the potential of gaining a mans name when the shoe is on the other foot is it the most degrading concept ever heard by the ears of men?

There is one woman I know who is a Ms. It's Chris' mom. I called her Mrs. by mistake the first time I met her - she kindly but firmly corrected me as Ms. and I have never made that mistake again. She is easily one of this country's most powerful women - intelligent, successful, not to mention really hot for a mother twice over. She has a better body than I do! But what makes her so incredible is that she is everything: a wife and mother, a success in her career and her life, and she did it all as Ms and not Mrs. She is the epitamy of what I believe is the update to the saying - "Behind every great man is a great woman". Chris' mom is "Beside every great man is a great woman" - not his Mrs. but his Ms.

And I can definately live with something like that.

One hundred little things...

2007-03-31T12:42:00.000-04:00

I wish I could take credit for this idea: alas, it's been done many-a-times before on blogs like mine, but hey; it's a great one so let's keep it going!

1) I am obsessed with the colour red. I wear it every day – seriously every day. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean I’m not wearing it.
2) I’m 5’2 – but so constantly in heels that I scare/surprise people with my ‘party trick’.
3) My ‘party trick’ involves me taking off one shoe and proclaiming “this is me with shoes” – drops down 2-3 inches – “and this is me without shoes”. It gets laughs every time.
4) The main reason I flirt is because at the time I’m bored.
5) I’ve grown up in several different countries on several different continents; and a few islands too.
6) Why? Well because I am a diplobrat.
7) I blame coffee for stunting my growth – however I am average height for someone with my background.
8) My mom’s from the South Pacific region of Asia. My dad is white.
9) I am literally a slave to my music.
10) I am addicted to Dog the Bounty Hunter.

11) I can’t cook – but I can sure as hell bake.
12) I have 2 replica WW1 and WW2 posters above my bed.
13) I am addicted to internet shopping.
14) 2 summers ago my dryer took a day to dry clothing, all the while making the loudest noise you could possibly imagine coming from an appliance. So I waited until the last possible minute to turn it on in the morning and managed to run out of my apartment.
15) I really don’t know how I’ve managed to survive myself.
16) If I am really lazy – I don’t do laundry. I just buy new clothes.
17) I still do that with panties.
18) Speaking of which, I keep them in a hat box instead of a drawer.
19) I’m really good at pretending to listen to people when I’m actually going over what I have to do/haven’t done that day.
20) I have a red load for my laundry.

21) I exercise constantly – but eat poorly.
22) I don’t have a favourite food – but I eat a lot of cereal.
23) I make a mean bowl of cereal.
24) I think Booster Juice is the greatest invention of our time.
25) My jeans hang in my closet from lightest to darkest – all other pants I really don’t care.
26) I have a growing obsession with Aveda hair and body products.
27) I am a serious hockey fan. It’s just a bonus that the players are so damn sexy.
28) I’m pretty sure I have ADHD.
29) I have a learning disability.
30) I seriously considered sewing my mitts to my jacket for the winter time, but then I’d be one of those kids.

31) Every so often I feel as if I am a 50 year old trapped in a 22 year olds body.
32) I have more older friends than friends my age.
33) I hate living with people.
34) Instead of removing nail polish with liquid remover, I just let it chip off.
35) I used to wish that I could change my full name – now I love it and most of my nicknames.
36) I have a fetish for shampoo and conditioner pairs.
37) I believe that shoes are God’s gift to women.
38) I believe that God is a woman – because there is also God that is a man.
39) I have an intense hatred for stupidity – not ignorance, because ignorant people truly don’t know any better. Stupid people do.
40) I hated dating – but loved the single life.

41) I carry with me at least 2 lip-chap sticks with me at all times; if I don’t have one I buy one.
42) I was the ugly kid.
43) I still don’t think I’m all that attractive: People seem to think otherwise and mistake my opinion for a sorry-attempt at being humble.
44) My father is the most interesting man I’ve ever met; but I’d still like to meet Christian Bale.
45) Batman is my favourite superhero.
46) I only eat pancakes either at home or at my greasy spoon diner next to the highway.
47) I hate taking the bus; I prefer the train.
48) I have an irrational and petrifying fear of flying.
49) I belong to a sorority. I don’t tell a lot of people because they assume that I’m one of those girls, like in the movies. Unfortunately those movies do a pretty accurate description of some of the girls I’ve met.
50) The area that I study in university is the love of my life.

51) Seriously I don’t think I’m all that attractive. I’m not being facetious.
52) I only go shopping for clothing by myself. I feel bad purchasing clothing in front of other people.
53) Shoe shopping – however – is a totally different story.
54) I have kindergarten teacher handwriting.
55) I learned to write at the same time I was learning how to use chopsticks. I amalgamated the two.
56) I love mint chocolate chip ice cream.
57) I have the craziest girlfriends in the world. And I wouldn’t trade them for the world.
58) The best part about me is my hair. It’s thick and it grows like a weed.
59) My prized possessions include my pair of Manolo Blahniks, my Coach purse and my Fendi sunglasses.
60) I only paid for the Manolo Blahniks.

61) I crack my knuckles on an hourly basis.
62) I have glasses but I never wear them.
63) My nails only seem to grow when I am not constantly watching and willing them to grow.
64) Michael Moore’s “Dude; Where’s My Country” inspired me to go into my field.
65) I guess I should tell you what that field is. I often leave out important pieces of information.
66) I once sprained my wrist opening a jar of applesauce. I wish I were kidding.
67) I’ve never broken a bone in my body.
68) I just knocked on wood. I also throw salt over my left shoulder if I ever spill some.
69) I really hate this number.
70) I’m studying nursing.

71) I have a wicked long-term memory, but damned if I can remember what you told me a minute ago.
72) I sing really loudly in the shower.
73) I love Post-It notes.
74) I hate going to movies with people.
75) I’ve been told that I think I am in a 24 hour shampoo commercial. Sometimes I think they’re right.
76) If I didn’t have to worry about paying off my debts and supporting myself and making a living, I would dance for the rest of my life.
77) I planning on getting, but at the same time am terrified of, laser eye surgery.
78) I can’t drive.
79) No seriously I don’t have my license.
80) I’m 22.

81) As soon as the flavor is gone I spit the gum out.
82) I eat the red ones – of anything - last.
83) I have 2 yoga mats and my yoga bags name is Polka.
84) I name most of my possessions.
85) Whenever I am away from home, I bring my teddy bear to sleep with.
86) That particular teddy bear has no name, despite being 10 years old. How very Holly Golightly of me.
87) My curiosity will be the death of me.
88) I have a terrific audio memory.
89) I can do 8 ‘man’ pushups and way more ‘girlie’ pushups.
90) The fact that ‘girlie’ push ups are referring to the ones done on your knees insults me.

91) I am very witty.
92) I take insults as good as I give them.
93) I trip over flats more often than heels.
94) I can’t eat spaghetti and meatballs without most of the sauce landing on my (always white) clothing.
95) I wear a moonstone necklace almost every day. I feel naked without it.
96) When I am nervous I bite my pinkie finger or my lower lip. I also do this while thinking.
97) I have a very expressive face.
98) I can’t lie. I am probably the worst liar ever.
99) This was really hard to do for me. I keep thinking I forgot something.
100) I probably did. C’est la vie.

Bells & Blues

2007-03-29T09:54:00.000-04:00

... do I look like a maid?

I was talking to my boss yesterday about, oddly enough, weddings. Perhaps because he and I are just short of creating a pool as to when the receptionist will get a proposal, or when our other co-worker will have a baby and finally bag her long-long-long term boyfriend. Anyway I had mentioned Angelica's upcoming nuptuials to Joe in August, of which yours truly is one of her bridesbabes. He brought up that old, awful and oh-so-annoying 'insult' of "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!" to which I responded "Do I look like a maid?"

Again, I guess I've been slacking on the memo department, but since when did getting a boyfriend automatically bring up the awkward wedding questions, the proposal dreams and the choice of flowers at the ceremony? And in a place of business, where the majority of employees and maybe 1-2 management are in fact female? Am I missing something - perhaps an emotion that most girlfriends are supposed to have when it comes to weddings and white picket fences?

Another blogger wrote about this not too long ago - how she, at 28, still had no idea of what her perfect wedding would look like. And for that post I wish to thank her. Vegas and I were talking and he brought up the 'fact' that "All girls have their perfect wedding planned out from the beginning." Um... the beginning of what? A relationship? Isn't that a little freaky? I mean - I got freaked out like nobody's business when Philippe got to talking about how I'd raise his children and how we'd be married in a Catholic church in French. It just didn't make sense to me then and now the concept of planning out such an elaborate event when you never know what tomorrow will bring in a relationship. Seriously; as in the case of Philippe, one morning he could be making you pancakes and strawberries and walking you to work, and the next day he could be chasing you down the main street of your city calling you a lying cheating waste of space. Why spend all that day-dreaming time on one day when you could spend it dreaming of your future - career wise, friends wise, travel wise, everything wise?

I must admit, however, that I have thought a little about a wedding. Why, Carrie - you ask? Well a few years ago yours truly was engaged... to Vegas. Did I mention that? Yeah... well anyway. The extent of my planning? My dress is Vera Wang. My shoes are Manolo Blahnik, or maybe Christian Loubouitin. Uh... um. My ring is Tiffany's. And that's it. Everything else was shades of grey or on my to-do-list after finishing my degree, getting a good job to pay for more school, getting my MA, PhD or even MD. Back in my 18-year-old mind that was what was most important to me - and it still is today. In fact, now in my 22-year-old mind other things have entered the realm of 'most important to me' that were not so clear as a know-nothing-know-it-all teenager.

A good point that was brought up in a comment is that most couples, men or women, whatever, think too much of the ceremony and not the actual marriage. What comes after the celebration - when the guests all leave, the food all gone, the presents all open - the reality of married life kicks in. Back in the end of my relationship with Philippe entering my single summer, my cynical self once though that the smallest pair of handcuffs in the world were wedding rings. And in a sense this is still true.

Vegas is a home-body. He dreams of white picket fences, children (with HIS last name), roots and neighbours, routine and stability. I, on the other hand, am a nomad. A gypsy in the hot-Esmerelda kind of way. I dream of travel, of far away places, of giving back to the world everything it's given to me and more. Of joining MSF, of lecturing on a little known but so important topic to future generations of those following in my footsteps. Of having former teachers who didn't believe in me call me DR., and have former teachers who did believe in me celebrate my success as their own. And maybe, after all that, or at the end stages of that, do I begin to accept visions of children and a hint of stability.

To me, a wedding represents both a celebration of a beginning and of an end. Sure I wrote how the Bachlorette Party is a celebration of the end of the single-fling life, but what about a wedding? It is a celebration of the beginning of married life - but what if it's not what you want? It sometimes seems, maybe only to me and others who've experienced twisted forms of relationships, that a wedding means you're exchanging your freedom for a party and a pretty dress. And to me, my freedom is worth far more than that.

The receptionist at my office seems really happy that she will be getting a proposal. She is more than willing to move to be with her soon-to-be fiance and start a life anew. And to her I say - right on sister. My co-worker wears her engagement ring with pride and brings her man with her whenever she can, and on her spare time plans her wedding with the same force and passion that she does her work. And to her I say - right on sister. Angelica is running a tight ship with dresses, fittings, parties, hair, plans, placement and of course food. And to her I say - right on sister. I will gladly attend, send gifts and stand up at the alter of my girlfriends weddings because it is her choice and I will celebrate it as if it were my own. But it's not my choice. At least, not yet.

I've got too much to do.

Women Who've Shaped Me

2007-03-27T11:48:00.000-04:00

I know I’m a little late in joining the celebration, but to all the women who have shaped me that I cannot write about today – Thank you.

There are two particular women I have decided to write about made the most significant impact on my future career and school-success. The first one, let’s call her Ms. Super. Ms. Super was my 9th grade science teacher. New to the school, Ms. S’s passion for the subject was both overwhelming and consuming – not an easy task for one teaching a bunch of rowdy 13 year olds. Until attending her class each day in the winter semester, yours truly had no solid interest or understanding of science, no passion to understand the beauty of its mysteries, the complexities of its simplest beings. Ms. S managed to draw me out from behind my science-trepidation, my disability to understand and ‘get’ the concepts and introduced me – started, even, my love affair with biology.

In my last year at high school I found myself in a computer lab full of new grade 9 students with Ms. Super as their instructor. After the class was over (as it was a particularly difficult one for her) I commented on how lucky those students were, as I was lucky 4 years ago, to have her as a teacher. Her unwavering passion for science, teaching and mentoring young students will no doubt be her legacy – and her greatest gift to the future. I have no doubt in my mind that Ms. Super has inspired countless others to pursue what interests them the most, introduced others to something they never thought they would like or, like in my case, excel in despite obvious difficulties.

The second woman I have decided to write about is my Sensei. Well, was my Sensei. At 5’2 (the same height as me) this incredibly strong, kind and intelligent woman has her own business, 2 children, a loving husband, and is a black belt 3 times over. As a skinny, small, naïve 8th grader, this woman through her guidance, instruction, passion and confidence in me, taught me discipline, courage, and guided me all the way to my blue (5/8) belt. In the year and a half I was under her tutelage, I gained tremendous self-respect, self-confidence, discipline and honour – qualities that I have seen lacking in many of the people I have had the displeasure of knowing.

The Dojo I attended was my happy place for 2 years – and when I had to leave it was the saddest day of my pre-teen years. In that small studio in the South-West end of this city I trained my body and my mind to overcome physical, mental and emotional adversity, all the while kicking ass with graceful and powerful movements. Not bad for a 5’2, 100 pound ‘little girl’. The movements and grace have stuck with me and is evident in every kickboxing aerobics class I attend – the discipline has stuck with me as well, which is the greatest lesson my Sensei ever taught me. In the earning of each belt I saw the benefits of hard work and dedication, and although I never reached the top level – in her eyes and maybe, eventually in mine, I am a success. And for that thought I am forever grateful.

The Politics of Relationships

2007-03-23T12:44:00.000-04:00

Does absence makes the heart grow fonder… or does it make the heart go wander?
This weekend is my formal – a graduation of some sort into the ‘adult’ phase of my life. I’ve known about this for 2 months know, and in turn so has Vegas. He planned on coming to the city on Thursday night, seeing me, and then meeting again on Saturday for the evening out. Great, I thought to myself, because Thursday day I work and then head to the gym until the late evening, and Friday I have class all day and work all night. So while this weekend I would love to see him as much as possible, 3 out of 4 days is pretty good and significantly enough for me.

Wednesday night we chat online and Vegas tells me that he is sick. How come, I ask, because on the weekend I went out he sounded fine, energetic, a little buzzed but overall well-enough to withstand his activities. Well, it’s because of the weekend straight of partying that he’s sick because the late nights have continued on as he scrambled to get his work done for looming deadlines and group meetings that start early and run late. So as a result, plus family obligations, our together time has fallen from 3 days to 1.

Fine, I said, just see me on Saturday, because I did not want him to get sick before then and be unable to accompany me. We proceeded to get into a disagreement (not argument) about the time issue, with me saying no to anything before Saturday in concern for his health and my previous obligations, and him say yes to see me on Thursday because he missed me. He was wondering why I was mad at him (I was not mad) for being sick, that he didn’t plan on it, and that he couldn’t control it. I was upset because I beg to differ.

I am of the opinion that every action has a reaction – and that every action has a consequence, and if you are not prepared to lose then you should not take the risk. Vegas partied a lot the first time around and it was a major issue in the ending of the relationship because it became priority #1 followed closely by school work and new friends, with me somewhere at the bottom for whenever it was convenient. When we got back together he had said that he was a changed man; and little actions like this tell me otherwise. He still readily and willingly gives into his friends to join in the party, which as a senior I can understand, but not attend the pity-party when the price is being paid in the form of sickness, insomnia, late assignments and all nighters.

Without trying to sound like a nag, some people, like Vegas and at one time myself, just don’t understand that they simply can not do everything, and even when they try 9 times out of 10 they’ll just end up doing nothing. During our conversation I was trying so hard not to say anything that could resemble a lecture from his mother, since he already has one. After Philippe I’ve obtained a very laissez-faire mentality when it comes to significant others; I believe that Vegas and any other man I decide to date is a grown man and can do and will do as he pleases; therefore he can also deal with the consequences of his actions. I too am a grown woman and can react as I please, which will be not speaking to him until the following Saturday when I make the trip to attend his formal, for which no doubt he will be well rested and anxious to attend.

I made a promise to myself and my girlfriends to act differently this time around, to not put up with neglect, to not beg for attention and come off as the demanding and high-maintenance girlfriend. If Vegas is sick or unable to completely attend my formal, and we all know how much fun an event can be when you significant other clearly makes it known that they do not wish to be there, then I have decided on a costume change and that I will go by myself. Last year I had a smashing good time by myself, in fact it was the best formal I ever attended – but I will still make the trip and spend the money to attend Vegas’ formal the following Saturday because that’s what Audrey Hepburn would freakin’ do.

I’ve found in my past relationships that there are guys out there who like to test the waters, to see how far the can push the limits, to see what the limits are. I mean, if they want to do something you can’t stop them, but at the same time they cannot be surprised when we react the way we do. I understand that being 2 hours away makes things difficult – and that our lives shouldn’t be spent pining for the other when there is the joie de vive out there waiting to be experienced. BUT at the same time, long distance requires a tad more planning and effort than having someone close by. Balance is the key to long-distance and in-town relationship success and it simply can’t all be on one side. I say this because I stay in, I work 2 jobs and I get my school work done so that when I do have a chance to see Vegas I am well, well rested, work free and money sufficient. If it won’t go both ways with Vegas or with anyone else then clearly I am wasting my time.

I get that men will try and test the limit. I get that they want to have fun; I mean, don’t we all? I get that they want to experience life, and sometimes it’s something they have to do with their buddies. But if it get’s out of hand and he doesn’t realize it, problems can and will arise. However, and there is always a however, until Vegas realizes on his own things won’t change.

So why is it when I bring this issue up, when I try to communicate that maybe he doesn’t have to attend every single party that arises, do I come off like a nagging, self serving bitchy girlfriend when all I want is a healthy rested boyfriend that I booked 2 months in advance for an important event? I guess it takes time for some to realize that when you're in a relationship you're no longer the only one who has to deal with the consequences of your actions.

It seems as if I have forgotten the politics of relationships – the negotiations, the debates, the communication issues, the diplomacy, the his-story/her-story/truth conundrum. The balancing act between the interests of yourself, your friends, your obligations and your significant other. The problem with relationship politics, as with politics in general, is that one side always seems to get screwed over in favour of another, one that may or may not deserve the extra attention, one that may or may not be the popular or correct choice. And just like in real politics, it is only a matter of time until the side that’s being screwed either becomes invisible, or leaves the table altogether.

Perhaps I am being rash, being too harsh with Vegas – but a promise to my girlfriends is a promise I do everything in my power to keep, especially when it’s a promise made with my best intentions and my well being at heart. And those kinds of promises insisted upon by your girlfriends is a promise one should never ever break.

The Fifth Wheel

2007-03-20T09:31:00.000-04:00

Last weekend I was dragged out by Angelica, her fiance Joe, Christie and her soon to be ex boyfriend, let's call him Paul... 2 couples in love and a little drunk, all set for a cold but shenanigan filled night on the town. Oh, and me. So you can imagine just how excited I was as the no longer single but still fabulous third, well make that fifth wheel in a mele of drunk, loud, affectionate couples holding hands while I held on to my new Coach purse, walking down the street either in front of or behind the 2 happy couples.

No worries, I thought to myself, as I tried in vain to convince myself that as soon as we got to the bar things would magically get better, the awkwardness would subside to reveal glimpss of the good old times Angelica, Christie and I had before we went our separate ways. I mean, that's what the weekend was about, right? Angelica had made the trip and now that she was here she was planning on making good all the promises we made each other on an epic night out, Summer of Fun style. Not to say that she didn't; oh no. I saw her every day and enjoyed every minute I spent with her but man oh man, when we got to the bar, holy hell was it ever awkward for yours truly.

Apparently I didn't get the memo, but I guess the once dominant singles to couples ratio normally found at the bar has switched, and with the exception of other socially akward people, the majority of the crowd out last night was plus one. And boy did I ever feel like a zero. I mean, seriously: If I was a single girl again in this situation I think I would have lost my mind. Since when did coupled people collectively decide to take over the single scene, leaving the stragglers to either pair up out of desperation or boredom, or as I did for the majority of the night, stand around saying nothing and having nothing said to me save for the scraps of conversations the couples managed to throw my way.

Please imagine how much fun I was having.

But here's the thing; I'm no longer single, so even playing my usual game of 'how many numbers can I get in one night' was completely out of the question, which left me with the only option of standing around waiting until the couples got tired and hungry and wanted to leave. (Did I mention that everyone was crashing at my apartment and I had the only key? Yeah. Otherwise I would have gone home, slipped away unnoticed until the next morning at our greasy spoon breakfast place).

I had written before about my intense dislike of needing a boyfriend in order to hang out with my girlfriends during my single summer, but now that I've found myself in a relationship I thought I had fulfilled the requirements to avoid any and all couple-y awkward social events. I guess with Vegas not here we've put ourselves in this grey area of having a significant other without having a significant other - especially when we need or want them around. I ended up text-messaging with him until close to 3:00 in the morning, my pathetic attempt to experience the sensation of everything and anything falling away to the sound (or in my case, image) of your lovers voice.

On the one hand I completely understand where Angelica and Joe are coming from. They too are long-distant lovers who hardly get to see each other, let alone do the usual couple stuff together. And Christie and Paul? Well, let's just say their relationship is special. And yeah, when couples go out together it really is only a matter of time until they lose interest in any other person than the one they are going home with. And that's lovely...if you're a part of a couple.

But on the other hand, knowing that this will inevitably, eventually, and always happen - why invite or drag or nest at a single or separated friend out when clearly she's that one thing that's not like the others; one of these things that's not quite the same. Even in my familiar territory of single and fabulous I felt not quite the same - to be perfectly honest, I felt useless, like a vintage accessory that's just gone out of style. And considering that I just got a boyfriend, that's pretty lame. I can't help but wonder in the cold and sober morning if this is my new coupled future - reveling in the grey area of taken but single, flying solo while surrounded by pairs. Because seriously, that future sucks.

Declaration of Independence

2007-03-16T12:42:00.000-04:00

Are all relationships, like people, created equal?

Yes my friends, it’s true. Your beloved Carrie has found herself in a relationship –her first in almost a year and a half. Suffice to say that I am a bit rusty in this area… I’m still getting used to and don’t think will ever get used to the concept of being someone’s girlfriend without the stigma that it’s had for me and many of my girlfriends over the past few years. Don’t get me wrong here; I’m not miserable in the fact that I have a boyfriend- it’s nice. It’s just that after being single and fabulous for so long, I can’t help but wonder how I and others adjust to the relationship world just as we were enjoying the single life?

I know a lot of people spend the majority of their single life searching for the one who will ‘rescue’ them from their supposed lonely and sad existence. I, on the other hand, never believed that. I believed in celebrating the single life for every minute of it – for we are lucky to have such freedom and endless possibilities in front of us. Not to mention the awful but so funny dates I went on, and might I add, after experiencing the good, the bad, and the as if of the dating game, it makes me appreciate more the good men who are out there. Especially when you have someone to call after a bad day, or someone to bring to a formal event, or someone to do nothing with is lovely, calming and stabilizing.

Except, of course, when you’re a twenty-something. Perhaps it’s just me and my weird understanding of relationships but sometimes, and irrationally I might add, serious long-term relationships begin to look like lace-covered forms of entrapment. Sometimes it signals the end of so much – many ideas that I know will never happen but the possibilities were often enough to keep me going. Maybe because I’ve been in relationships like that and maybe because I’ve seen my girlfriends fall into relationships like the ones I am describing - most recently one particular girlfriend, let’s call her Nicole. Don’t get me wrong here, she seems happy most of the time and when she’s happy I am happy – but we hardly ever get to see each other because she’s with him and even when we do get to see her, her man is never far away.

I was thinking about this on my way home from the gym – My inner city escape from school, work and people in general – how much I enjoy and value my ‘me’ time. I never understood how some of my friends who are in relationships can go from work to their significant other without a break in between to do the things that they need to do – alone. I mean, I enjoy the pleasure of Vegas’ company, but I also enjoy the pleasure of my own. As I had mentioned before I never had nor will I ever need another person to validate my existence, regardless as to whether or not I was in a relationship or not. I ended up asking myself if I could retain my sense of independence while being in a relatively committed relationship.

I decided to give Vegas another chance partly because I never stopped caring for him and partly because he was my most sane relationship. When he lived in the city our relationship was consuming… and yes, it got boring. Monogamy became monotony. We were too young for such a serious relationship that with age came every day responsibilities such as work, bills, kids and well-developed lives that prevent relationship-overkill. But this time around, with him 2 and later on 4 hours away from me with a job, separate friends and ‘adult’ responsibilities, maybe monogamy won’t become monotony. Maybe this is the perfect relationship.

A Matter of Attraction

2007-03-13T08:57:00.001-04:00

Getting what you want... just not when you want it.

Among my circle of girlfriends it is generally accepted that the best way to get a boyfriend is to get a boyfriend, or in other words the only way to get sex is to have sex. Now I don’t know about you but as much as I’ve witnessed, experienced and ranted about this odd version of ‘how things work – dating wise’ this concept has never ceased to amaze and frustrate me.

On one hand I understand the logic: One cannot just sit around and wait for everything you want to literally fall into your lap. You meet people you can date by meeting people in general. You find yourself in a relationship by putting yourself out there, not by hiding in the background wondering why nobody is asking you for dinner, coffee or even if you need a hand with your laundry. But at the same time why is it when and ONLY when you find a significant other that you actually like do options all around you open up that were closed or unavailable or invisible when you were single? I mean, what shift in personality, actions, emotions or thoughts triggers such an influx of suitable candidates in a dating game only after you’ve stepped off the field?

I am talking, of course, about Paris. Now before I go into detail I must state that as a lover of science I know that I cannot base any theory of mine, no matter how outlandish or silly, on one case and one case alone. Ever since Vegas and I reunited I have somehow found myself the object of affection of known-platonic friends, new co-workers and randoms on the bus/street/gym. It's really as if the idea of a taken woman is the most intriguing, desirable, obsessive idea to some men – so much that given the opportunity he’d cross the line from platonic friend to homewrecker in an instant if there was the slightest chance that you’d discover you felt the same way. Text messages, phone calls, being extra helpful. Even when they know you have a boyfriend. Seriously - What is it about having a relationship that attracts more potential suitors for, well, a relationship?

Or in Paris’ case, the potential for a hint of truth; or clarity in his case. It all started with a quick hello-how-are-you phone call that after a mentioning of me running off with a man and how it would affect Paris’ plan, the conversation turned into an on slot of emotional confessions from a shade of grey did-I-or-didn’t-I man that I must admit I was not prepared for. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he was prepared for it either. Paris is typically a smooth-talking man who is cleaver with his words. He gives you enough to make you curious but too little to solidify anything. But this morning he was going on about revelations and a deeper understanding... Oh and my personal favourite, how he’s changed.

In those ways he had changed – The entire conversation felt like he wanted to say something to me, something of obvious importance but for one reason or another the words were not flowing from his mouth in its’ usually symphony of grey, but more of a sharp staccato of black and white. It intrigued me enough to stay on the line without saying much, but at the same time not enough to probe and prod for a deeper understanding.

Why? Well because I am of the belief that people don’t really change – they evolve. Perhaps Paris had a revelation or two, or his radar went off that I was now off the market, that made him realize that ‘hey maybe this girl isn’t so bad’. He said so himself that when we first connected in November of 2005 he wasn’t prepared for the striking similarities and easy comfort that he and I possessed so effortlessly. It shook him and caught him off-guard, as it did me. He also said that he knows he affects me (duh) and that different emotions come up (shit) and neither of us know how to respond (fair). And then he brought up this that he wanted to discuss it at a later time.

The issue is, and this goes with all other platonic men who have decided to enter a race that has already been won, is that their time to discuss anything further with me with the hopes that further discussion will lead to further action has come and gone. Chris’ theory is similar to mine in that when a guy finds out that his attractive girl friend he’s flirted with on and off but never pulled the trigger now has a boyfriend, it is a rude awakening to some men’s (and women’s) innate laziness when it comes to opportunity. I know that a significant number of people do not realize what they have until it’s gone, and as Chris put it so eloquently, it’s like leaving something for later because you know it’ll always be there. But Paris and all others should know that when it comes to people, he or she may not always be where you left them last.

Vegas Calling

2007-03-09T13:22:00.000-05:00

So I know I alluded to this post a while back – and I apologize for my tardiness in sharing the story. School and work and life in general have been busy for this City-Socialite. You know how it is! Anyway back to my original point. I’m sure you’re wondering who this Vegas is; I’ve mentioned him a few times over the years but never really got down to the nitty-gritty, which I realize is totally unfair. So here we go.

Vegas and I met in high school. In a school of less than 400 ‘seniors’ (so 9th grade and up) we managed to have only one class together – but that was enough. For the majority of the year he didn’t stand out to me until one day he caught my eye, with what he was wearing no doubt: a white beater that revealed his deliciously toned arms and football physique and immediately I was stricken. The problem was he was so shy that he could barely look at me, let alone say a few words that would lead to a date. Luckily, being a woman, I schemed my way into the good graces of his friends to plant the seed of assurance that yes I liked him and yes I would agree to a coffee date. So coffee we did – and started a romance of three years that until the final goodbye was like a rollercoaster of dizzying highs and terrifying lows.

The re-kindling happened this summer: It started as an innocent phone call on his birthday, I mean, you can’t know and love someone for over 6 years and not call or email on a birthday. I didn’t mean it to be anything more than a ‘hey happy birthday big plans ok bye have fun!’ conversation, especially being in the middle of my man-a-month summer and semi-affair with Paris. I also told Vegas that we’d never be ‘friends’ seeing as how I neither sleep with nor agree to marry my friends, but I am a classy lady so a phone call was in order.

Emails and phone calls followed but I didn’t make a big deal out of it – curiosity is common with ex’s and whatnot - Until he asked me out for dinner. A part of me wanted to say no – He had asked for me back a few times already but I was having too much fun, ridiculous or otherwise, to deal with a former lover during the summer. But when September rolled around I thought ‘hey, free dinner AND I get to pick where!’, so after my yoga class on a bright and breezy Saturday morning, I called Vegas back and agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant in the heart of downtown.

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have a good time. We spoke with ease and joked like old times, he looked good but I looked better. Except at the end of the night he confessed his ulterior motive, even though I could tell by the way he was looking at me. Again I said no and immediately lost my appetite for my caramel drenched pastry dessert. Truth of the matter was I loved him still, but I needed someone who lived in the same city as me, not 2 hours away and potentially 4 by the end of this school year. Deflated and defeated, he agreed to drive me home as the bill was settled and the last of my cosmo passed my lips.

On the drive home he was silent; not unusual for a man who just got rejected but was trying to put a brave and gentlemanly face on, but something told me that he had something to say but couldn’t – So I let my instinct decided for me as I told him to pull over somewhere so we could talk. As the night got darker and darker we spoke: not about us, but about everything: Life, school, goals, the future, parents, friends… And then it started to rain. As I started to wonder exactly what time it really was, Vegas reached over and started to tickle me to ease the air of the past heavy topics. I laughed and squirmed to try and get away, but somehow, with the rain pouring down on his silver car, his lips found mine.

A couple of hours later he drove me home. We agreed for him to stop by my apartment the next night before going back home so that we could ‘discuss’ what happened between us. Half of me regretted what I had just done – I mean, I didn’t sleep with him (come ON! In a car? I don’t think so) but - I suppose enough happened to warrant a talk. I immediately called Mackenzie to discuss my options and to form a battle plan to avoid any awkwardness when we’d see each other again.

But the other half of me… well, didn’t regret it. Why should I? It was consensual, it was familiar, and it was hot! But I know that as an adult, or at least of legal age, consequences come with my actions – and this time around my consequence was having to talk about what happened with Vegas. It was Mackenzie came up with the battle plan: don’t sleep with him and don’t get back together! And as I organized my closet out of frustration I decided that it was the best route of action. I mean, what was I thinking?? We weren’t going to get back together, and what was with all this need-for-a-label business? Couldn’t we just call a spade a spade, realize that it had been a long time for the both of us since we felt the others touch, we enjoyed it and now we can move on?

My thoughts echoed this decision as he entered my door and sat on my bed – both of us not knowing what to say or how to act, or even how to feel around each other. So that’s what we did; just sat there.

He left the next morning.

Under normal circumstances I am not one for believing in second chances, let alone an unknown number of second chances that I gave Vegas. However this wasn’t one of ‘those’ situations. My curiosity was overwhelming as this urban relationship myth brought up the universal question of all relationships, be they platonic, intimate or somewhere in between. The question is, of course, can people change?

I am about to find out.

Evolution

2007-02-25T12:43:00.000-05:00

My blog friend DT brought up the question of routine; more specifically, how one could avoid it. Seeing how I have semi-managed to fall into one myself at first I didn’t think I was the proper one to answer this question, or even take a stab at it. Until I began to think about some of my friends and where they are in life: and although each and every one of them has a different story, they are all twenty-somethings and all have found themselves in some sort of routine.

I think our society thrives, nay, depends and demands routine from all it’s members starting from the top down: successful business men and women all talk about ‘to do lists’ or ‘agendas’ or ‘time management’ etc, notions that they believe helped them on their journey to success. In an attempt to emulate such successes, parents and teachers hammer into the heads of their young the benefits of organization and routine and the pitfalls and consequences of spontaneity, such as you’ll never get into college or university, you’ll never find a job, you’ll never do your laundry etc etc. I guess the perfect example of this kind of ‘education’ would be my co-worker friend, let’s call her Valerie, who at the tender age of 22 has two (yes, 2) degrees, a full-time job and a fiancée. She comes to work, goes home, and plans her wedding on her weekends. At best she’ll come out with us sporadically, and if planned by the receptionist. Otherwise it is her and her fiancée; let’s call him Rico, doing whatever it is they do with their spare time. Val is in what I like to call the triple threat: 8 hours of work, 8 hours of play, and 8 hours of sleep. Don’t get me wrong here; she might go to the gym or shopping, but compared to the stories she’s told me of her university days, it is a tame tame world that she’s found herself in.

When I look at Val I see myself; at least, the girl that had her world pulled out from underneath her almost 3 years ago. Had my world stayed exactly the same, had my routine not been shaken to the core to the point of no return, I would be exactly where Val is today. And that scares me like nobody’s business. It’s great for those who strive for the perfect balance; good on you. But for me it signals the end of an era, the twenty-something era of exploration and discovery long before it had the chance to truly begin.

Not to say that after your 30th birthday all there is left is routine. Hardly! It takes a bit more effort on your part and a few more scary sacrifices, but as a very brave friend of mine showed me and the rest of his posse, change is possible and change can be an adventure in itself.

On the eve of his 29th birthday this friend of mine decided that the time had finally come, all the excuses have proven useless, for him to travel the world. That meant, of course, he would have to take a sabbatical from his job, save up the money to travel in style, and leave the girl of his dreams that he had just met. Personally, I don’t know if I could do what he did to, well, do what he did before, during and after his trip. But it got done and the experience changed his life. It was an incredible story to read and watch, and I know that he has inspired countless numbers of people to do what it takes to achieve your dream before taking that seemingly endless plunge into the black hole routine.

I think, at least for myself, that it is really really easy to fall into a routine. It is comfortable, familiar, and simple to maintain. Spontaneity, however, requires effort, loose planning, improvisation and most importantly courage. We naturally fear what we do not know, and many f us prefer the known outcome to the potential of chance or fate. I guess that is my answer, DT; to avoid routine we must have the courage to welcome and face change. I know that this is so much easier said/typed than done, but think about it: I don’t know how it is for other people, but adults in my parents generation, the boomers, snicker at the notion of their children’s (twenty-somethings) new fangled ideas of work, play and everything in between. The ideas of travel, spontaneity, broken work weeks filled with afternoon siestas, but mostly the notion that we (the echo) can change the world is often laughed at and dismissed by the boomers as nothing but idyllic dreams of an over-idealistic and uninformed generation.

What I find amusing is that generation, the generation that changed the world, has now come full circle and taken the place of their parents who no doubt snickered at the free-flowing hair, love and spirit of their children who experts say will change the world until the day they die. I know that they are not finished with their influence, that they are not ready to end their reign of change – but it will end soon. The next 4 to 5 years will be the years where we, the echo will develop, mature and discover just exactly what we can do, what we want to do, and what we can do. The world will change again according to its inhabitants and how we respond to the environment we are in. In other words, the world will change by us, for us; so as the definition of ‘routine’ may no longer mean 8-8-8 of work, rest and play. Personally I think that the traditional ‘routine’ is ready to end. The question is, my twenty-something and thirty-something friends, are we ready to begin?

Better book those flights soon eh?

Excuses, Excuses

2007-02-19T19:48:00.000-05:00

Since when do we need them?

This past Valentine’s Day, or for the majority of my co-workers, Single and Fabulous Day, I was talking to my boss about, well, what else, Valentine’s Day. He was surprised that I didn’t have a date (I did: He just lives 2 hours away from me) and I was surprised that he didn’t either. In fact, I was surprised to find out that almost every single one of my co-workers who were working that night didn’t have a date, or someone to call their date for Valentine’s Day.

But that wasn’t the point of our conversation. Personally ever since I was 18, or maybe it was 19, I lost interest in the concept of Valentine’s Day. Not because I spent last year’s Single and Fabulous Day working and then working out at my gym, ie spending it as I would any other day of the year; No, I’ve lost interest because it really is such a Hallmark Holiday – a buy-things-that-are-50%-more-expensive-than-usual-because-corporations-tell-you-too-day. And really – from my 22 year old perspective of life, I wouldn’t want my significant other treating me extra special on one day just because he feels he HAS to. I mean, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of love when an act of it is out of obligation?

However, and there is always a however, my boss brought up an excellent point. He mentioned that he didn’t date because he’s fallen into a rhythm of working, having a drink afterwards, going home and doing it all over again the next day. When one falls into such a pattern, he said, it’s nice to have an excuse to do something, to make the time to do something special for the person in your life; The person that takes away the monotony of the wake up-work-come home-sleep cycle that we all somehow seem to fall into no matter how hard we try not to.

As soon as those words passed his lips to my ears I got to thinking about my own hectic schedule and the rhythms I’ve fallen in to, whether I had meant to or not. I mean, I go to my internship – I go to my classes – I go to work – I go to the gym – I go home. And then it starts all over again. With the exception of after-work drinks and gym dates, I too have to make excuses to see my friends… That is, if I can manage to fit them into my pink day planner.

I can’t help but wonder if this is the future of adult-living: The need for calendar-set-days or occasions to see your girlfriends or have a date night with your significant other. I mean, it just seems odd to me that in this age of being able, if not celebrated for doing whatever we want whenever we want, do we really need an excuse to do something with the ones we love?

I guess the pre-commercialism of days like Valentine’s (or Single and Fabulous’) were meant for just that: An excuse to be extra special, extra attentive, and extra loving to those in our lives who save us from the cycles we find ourselves in, especially when you all find yourselves going in opposite directions. It is true how we often forget, or at least put on the backburner, those in our lives who bring in the sunshine through the rain.

I just wish that on those special days it didn’t cost me my first born child to send a basket of cookies. Oh well, c’est la vie.

The Interview

2007-01-30T19:04:00.000-05:00

I’m just a girl in your cell phone, but you’re just a line in a blog.

I can’t remember if I have alluded to my man-a-month summer; a period of six (6) months where in fact, each month I had a new man I was telling my girlfriends about.. Sometimes good stories, but more often than not they were hilariously awful stories. Anyway when I mention this to some of my friends – guys and girls alike – they often mistake my terminology of choice thinking that something juicy happened when really it was quite the opposite. Now under normal circumstances I wouldn’t mind, but in the sense of the dating game a verbal misunderstanding can often turn into a blowup.

Let me explain: During my man-a-month summer I did indeed go out with 6 different men, but I did not ‘date’ them: No, I in fact conducted what I like to call an ‘interview’. To clarify, an ‘interview’ is what I refer to as the first few dates – i.e. 2 strangers meeting to see if a) there is a connection and b) if they can stand each other after the initial politeness wears off. My ‘interview’ process at best last three times; meaning the guy will have had three chances to impress me, and he will have had three chances for me to impress him. Interviews usually involve public places, rescue-me calls and code-words to get out of a terrible situation. This is what happened with The Cop, The Cameraman, The Organic Grocery Store Man and The Hippie. One coffee date was had with each, followed by either a mutual thank you and good-bye or a non-negotiable but still awkward ‘no thanks’ phone call or email.

Anyway, if we both pass the ‘interview’ stage, because remember; a relationship is a mutual selection process, then would I move on to the ‘seeing’ stage – where you’ve decided you like the person enough to continue, well, seeing them. This stage usually involves dinners at one persons place and slightly more personal conversation, not to mention the kiss. This is what happened with The Medic and The Teacher. After a few extra dates, well, in the life of Carrie, after this stage I would either transition into the ‘dating’ area (semi-exclusive and beginning introduction to friends and colleagues) and eventually reach ‘relationship’ status (the talk has been had and agreed upon) – or in both of those previous cases, neither man would ever call me again. Or was it I who forgot to call them? I can’t remember – but either way it ended and probably for the best, as if I can’t remember why or who forgot to call, they probably weren’t on my mind enough to make me want to date them.

So I guess a few of my friends incorrectly assumed that I ‘dated’ – meaning I went out with six men on three or more dates and kissed each and every one of them before deciding “Nope – just kidding! You can leave now, buh-bye!” Of course, this is not the case. That’s poor form. And apparently if you’re female, so is ‘dating’ (as defined above) six men in as many months. I mention this because the friends that misunderstood me and my intentions immediately labeled me as ‘one of those’ girls – loose, promiscuous, and even easy… Despite the fact that men do this all the time – and for some reason that’s perfectly acceptable.

A friend of mine once told me that it didn’t matter if a guy ‘liked’ this one particular girl – he’ll still flirt with you and try to win you over as well. Why? Because guys go for multiple girls at a time – and I gotta hand it to you men: This idea is golden. Its brilliance lies in its simplicity: It’s all about statistics. The more you play the field, the better chances you’ll have to find the right person for you, or in some cases, you’ll have to get laid. So why is it ok for guys to ‘date’ that way based on how well it works and how intelligent it really is, but it’s not ok for us girls to do so as well?

Before anyone gets mad at me – I’m not referring to those kinds of girls that I mentioned above. You know, the ones that prey on men’s stupidity by going to the bar wearing practically nothing and flirting in order to get drinks, dinners, even jewelry and clothing but never letting anything go further? Yeah – No. I’m talking about those of us, male and female, who legitimately try to find the right person but are incorrectly judged as promiscuous based on the methods we chose to engage in during our search. We’re not being promiscuous; we’re being smart. We’re actually using that statistics crap we’ve been taught in lecture to our benefit!

But in the end it doesn’t really matter what those friends of mine think – They’re usually my bitterly single friends who complain about never being able to find a date, or how terrible the other sex is, or when they DO get a date have it spiral into friendship. This masculine form of dating is not only intelligent – it works. At least, it did for me.

But that post will come later.

Ask and Ye Shall Wait...

2007-01-24T19:01:00.000-05:00

… or Go Get It and Save Yourself the Trouble

I don’t ask for a lot of things. I’m stubborn like that. I’d rather do something for myself or get something by myself rather than have to rely on someone else to do it for me. Perhaps it is a cynical view I carry that really, the only person you can rely on is yourself, but think about it. If you need something, say a cup of coffee or a manicure, I am not the kind of person to wait for it to come to me or project my needs onto whoever is closest to me when it would take less effort to stand up and get it myself. From what I have experienced thus far, people are too busy worrying about what they have to do than to really take the time to do something for you, so why bother when it’s nothing off your back to do it? Having to work around someone else’s priorities sounds a hell of a lot harder than working around your own, and at least you’ll have an idea of when whatever you need will be done. A few of my friends refer to this belief as my innate independence; I just see it as common sense, and I can’t be the only one.

I was having dinner with Pete one night and we got to talking about how I somehow managed to break my TV by turning it off on a Thursday night after “The Office” and “Grey’s Anatomy”. He had asked me if I was planning on getting it fixed, to which I replied “well I don’t know” and still don’t know. Although it being an inopportune time, seeing how “Grey’s Anatomy” is now on for 3 hours a week, (same as a standard university lecture; coincidence? I think not!), getting my television fixed would require me having to rely on a few things: first, a TV repair man, if they even still exist, and having to work around his schedule or even worse have to lug the damn thing somewhere in my non-existent car with my not-so-legal-by-myself license, so second someone else with a car and a heart of gold. Neither option was too pleasing to me, so until a better one pops into my head I’m just not going to do anything about it.

This made Pete burst out laughing at my natural stubbornness, mentioning that he a) has a car and b) would be willing to take me to get it fixed. However, Pete knows me pretty well and through his chuckles threw out there that I would “carry that thing on your back and drag it down the street yourself!” his emphasis on yourself. I know that eventually I will break down and get my television fixed, or buy a new one, but still… it does not take away from the fact that I do not like to ask or rely on anybody else for anything.

Now I admit there are a few things that I simply cannot do for myself and thus rely on other people. Brazilians for example. I mean, I guess I could do it in theory, however I cannot inflict that much pain upon myself willingly, thus I pay almost 50$ every 5 weeks for my waxer to do it for me. I also can’t drive, but living in the city not many twenty-something students do who live on their own. So I rely on the bus to get me places that I can’t or really shouldn’t walk to. And finally, I cannot survive without my friendships which means in the end relying on other people. It is true that no woman is an island, but at the same time there is nothing stopping any capable girl (or guy for that matter) from being independent and self-reliant.
I guess it’s the “some else will do it” mentality that plagues a percentage of the population, tying into the fact that nobody cares what happens so long as it doesn’t happen to them, but if it does well someone better be there to fix it and that someone better not be me! It’s a shame that the percentage of this lazy population is unfairly clumped into my generation, the twenty-something Echo’s of the Baby Boomers who to some people gave us everything except the value of hard work. Granted yes, the majority of these lazy freeloaders I speak of are in my generation, but I know quite a few people in my age-range who gladly work for their own money, clean their own apartments, maintain their own cars, and basically are as independent as a twenty-something student can be. That being said, I’ve run into more than my fair share of sponges who create messes but refuse to even acknowledge them, let alone clean them up for themselves.

I know a few people who believe that it is much easier for another person to do whatever needs to be done and for some things I agree. It is much easier to have someone clean your apartment, for example, or for someone to cook for you and change your light bulbs 2 months after they have burned out. However I can’t for the life of me understand people who do as little as possible every chance they get, as if they are deflecting the smallest task just so that they don’t have to do anything or use anything of themselves. I’d think that consistently delegating any and all tasks to someone else would cause more stress, not less. I mean, what if they don’t do what you ask them on time, or at all? What if they forget? What if they simply do not feel like it? It seems to me that you’re creating more complications by hoping that someone else will take care of it than solving the same problems on your own.

The Green Eye'd Monster

2007-01-15T21:28:00.000-05:00

Beware, my ladies (and gentlemen!), of jealousy...

I had a nightmare not too long ago about my ex, Pierre. In this dream Pierre had somehow found out, I'm guessing through a mutual friend of ours whom I bumped into during my Festivus shopping extravaganza, that I had gotten back together with Vegas after repeatedly denying Pierre any and all chances of ever getting within 10 feet of yours truly. Anyway, he had found out that Vegas and I were together, and in my dream he was literally chasing me down the street (reminiscent of an argument we once had over Vegas contacting me via email just to see how I was) yelling and screaming at me, saying stuff like "why are you back with HIM?? He broke your heart and I did NOTHING wrong!!" even though the majority of our relationship was emotionally abusive (read; it was like dating a needy, selfish, self-possessed chick who was always right but never satisfied. MEN, I respect you SO much for dealing with that after I experienced my Pierre debacle!).

I tried to run away down the street but he kept following me asking why I hadn't given him a second chance (which I did; BIG mistake!) and then when I continued to run away he decided to scream "YOU CHEATED ON ME!!!" because I had gotten back with Vegas... over a year after Pierre and I broke up? I don't know, it's a dream! Anyway I would sometimes manage to scream back "Leave me alone!!" which I had done in the past and this continues until someone who looked like a senior management personnel and his wife show up (random, I know!) and ask me if I am ok. By this point I am crying, saying "No I am not" but Pierre keeps screaming and calling me names. And then my alarm went off.

I spoke to Mackenzie about this and according to google the most common dreams one can have of an ex is either a)having sex with said ex or b) things like that, but never nightmares. That nightmare got me thinking of Pierre's and my other ex's irrational behaviour at times which I think I've managed to generally boil down to one reoccuring concept in the men I chose to date: Jealousy. I know that it's highly unlikely in the general population, but after the past four serious and semi-serious boyfriends, I can't help but wonder if all men are created equal in respects to their levels of jealousy?

Dont get me wrong here; I know plenty of super-jealous women who go to the extreme to keep their men all to themselves to the point where he is not allowed to have female friends, but being a non-irrational girl, I can only discuss this topic from the point of view that men are the more-jealous of the two, at least when he is in a relationship. With the exception of one boyfriend, let's call him 'Ward', all subsequent boyfriends or semi-serious men in my life have been at one time or another, or all the time, jealous. Now this jealous could extend well beyond the skeezy men you come across in the night-life of a twenty-something into areas of question; ie girls nights out, self-dates, school, me-time? Basically it was as if his jealous crossed over from 'protective male-instincts' to 'creepster chauvinistic-impulses', both of which are forms of jealousy but are tolerated in completely different ways.

To be fair, the first form of male jealousy, 'protective male-instincts', I can understand. I mean, I don't know how male minds work, and men do. So I guess it makes sense, like the daddy-hates-everyone-who-dates-his-daughter-because-he-knows-how-and-what-guys-think conundrum... and that I don't and will never mind; in fact, I like it. To me it tells me that a) he's protective of you, because we all know us girls look for our dad's in the men we date and eventually marry, and b) he knows you're hot shit, so he'd better treat you right and show interest in you and the men seeking your attention. No, it's the second form of male jealousy, 'creepster chauvinistic-impulses', that I can't and will never understand.

Preventing your girlfriend (or boyfriend for that matter) from having a life beyond you is NOT healthy. Nor is it SANE! I mean, really; that whole "one mind" mentality is bullshit. If you are so insecure that you cannot contemplate the fact that your significant other is a person with interests, friends, and a life to live outside of your sphere of influence, then maybe you ought to step back for a second and think of your true intentions of being in a relationship. Pierre was trying to fill a void using me and that is a dangerous game to play because in the end, despite how good of a person you are and all that you try to do, you're never going to be able to fill that emptiness for that person. A relationship should be symbiotic; equal in giving to and taking of the other with the realization that your significant other gives to all that are in her/his life, be it friends, future friends, family, co-workers, and classmates.

I get that men don't like to share their women sexually; women don't like to share their men sexually either! But when that no-sharing policy breeches into your activities of daily living, you gotta stop and think if this is the kind of relationship you want to be in; singular, all-encompassing, and more fit for a Stepford Wife/Husband than a modern Manolo-lite.

The Bachlorette (Party)

2007-01-02T14:14:00.000-05:00

I’m in the middle of planning another bachlorette party for Angelica, my girlfriend who is getting married this summer. Christie, myself and another friend, let’s call her ‘Holly’, had a successful impromptu bachlorette for Angelica this past summer, which involved endless drinks, food and adoration from a group of generous guys we picked up at a local night club in the heart of the downtown core. Following an adventure home which included piggy back rides through the valley of sketch, the memories (and pictures) live on in infamy as one of the most fun nights of the entire summer.

That evening we were celebrating a lot of things; first and foremost, Angelica’s impending nuptials. Second, the arrival of Angelica’s wedding tiaras of which we all wore to the bar. Third, Holly’s most unusual cameo. And fourth, we were celebrating the joie de vive that twenty-something girls have for a mid-summer Friday night out. We were celebrating a lot of things, and as we drank, dressed and took pictures that idea got me thinking about my own state of non-union. It’s not that I was upset or jealous; I don’t think I am the marrying, white picket fence and 2.5 kid kind of girl, but on a night historically spent celebrating the last hurrah of singledom, I couldn’t help but wonder why we tend to celebrate being single only when we know it is slipping away?

Now I don’t know about you, but a Stagette thrown by yours truly involves drinking, dancing, flirting, eating, and pictures, oh so many pictures. A typical girls night out with the exception of a gigantic rock on a girls finger that manages to get the attention of any and all available (and not so available) men currently at the bar. It’s a proven fact, at least among my circle of friends, that nothing attracts a group of men willing to buy you drinks like a woman they know they can’t possibly have. A stagette/bachlorette, whatever, is an evening with your closest girlfriends doing all the things you would do, or wanted to do, while you were single. So begs the question… if one has to wait until they are engaged to, well, engage in such free spirited acts of independence once dominant in a girl’s single life, why are such special nights regulated only for those who will lose it?

According to these types of parties, the single life is meant to be enjoyed. Sure at the end of the night (or the beginning of the morning) you may return to your bed alone, or find yourself walking the walk of game alone (with a stop at Second Cup for a vanilla bean latte) in last nights killer outfit and equally killing shoes, but they are all signs of a good single night out. Being single, unattached, whatever allows you the freedom to do such things, be wild and free, and to celebrate this just because you can. The party may ease up once you find yourself in a relationship but until you do, the joie de vive of the single life is there, just waiting for you to grasp it.

A co-worker and I once discussed at length the concept of a we’re all bachlorette party; where a bunch of girls, single or otherwise, would dress up with veils or tiaras, hit the bars for an epic night on the town with the goal of getting as many free drinks, kisses and phone numbers as humanly possible. Now why would an evening that fun, that fresh, that exciting and eventful be reserved only to brides? I mean, in the sense of singledom we are all potential bachlorettes, looking or otherwise, for our Mr. Right. I think that single gals should, nay MUST celebrate their single hood long before it’s traded in for a Vera Wang wedding dress and sky-high Manolo Blahnik wedding shoes. I mean, what’s really stopping us? In my opinion, when Mr. Right eventually comes along, I think he’d rest easier knowing that when our final bachlorette comes we’ve managed to enjoy our seriously-single time enough to let it fade as soon as we watch him get on one knee. That way, not only do we know what we are losing, the freedom and spontaneity of singledom, but we also know what we’re gaining… Someone to come home to.

Tender is the Turkey

2006-12-25T15:31:00.000-05:00

... and other X-mas traditions of the twenty-something generation.

Today is Christmas Day, a day when millions of Christians, pseudo-Christians and other believers of the Catholic faith come together to celebrate the birth of their Lord by maxing out their VISA cards on lavish and expensive gifts for loved ones, eating a ridiculous amount of food and dessert, drinking a bit too much champagne and wine and other spirits, all to sit back with the tele on, dozing as we wait for the annual X-mas turducken to baste in the oven.

As an avid celebrator of either Festivus or Yule, and with parents who celebrate Christmas, I always find this time of year ... Interesting. Before my science-laden common sense clouded my Catholic-school education, Christmas was a time of pageants, nativity scenes, extra long masses adorned with candles, and Christmas carols, oh the Christmas carols! But as I'm sure all of us have realized, X-mas is less and less about a religious holiday than it is a big spend-for-all with a one day break in between the 24th (the last possible day) and the 26th (when the REAL fun starts).

My brother Greg and I have drifted away from our previous beliefs, siting the grand commercialism of the holiday and our love of science... plus the whole PC-ness of the "Winter Holiday season". The most interesting debate I had eavesdropped on was the "campaign to save Christmas" heard on the Colbert Report and at the dinner table of Vegas' parents. Both parents refuse to edit their "Merry Christmas'" to those who do not celebrate the holiday, citing the fact that as native Canadians (see it as you may), they do not feel the need to address the feelings of "immigrants" who come to their country and then become offended by the locals holiday traditions.

They raise an interesting point as I certainly would NOT enter a Muslim country and throw a hissy fit around Ramadan, citing my right as a 'citizen' to not only celebrate what I believe in, but to PC another religions celebration to equalize it with my own. Nor would I enter a Jewish community and insult the 8 days of Hanukkah... so why does Christmas get picked on?

Maybe because the commercialization of Christmas is driven first and foremost by its followers. The very same people who preach from their soapboxes about the evils of abortion and the abstinence is the only way sex-'education' are still the ones purchasing expensive gifts for their families, throwing the lavish parties and eating more food in one night than some families eat in a month.

So I guess it is kind of hard for my brother and I, and other twenty-somethings would rather celebrate Festivus in lieu of other 'traditional' holidays that have fallen prey to their own leaders; but in the mean time the turkey is basting, the tree is adored with lights, and my new lulu sweater and warm up pants are just dying to be tried on!

Diamonds

2006-12-14T22:24:00.000-05:00

... are a girl's best friend

In this festivus season, among many things, I got to thinking about girlfriends. I read an article recently in a trashy tabloid magazine (shut up; it's my thing, let it go) about a growing trend with 20-something girls, at least, the 20 something girls in the celebrity world. Anyway, in this piece the author makes an observation that the relationship between girl friends are replacing the level of relationship once held by boyfriends. Celebrity 'couples' like Paris & Britney, Marisa & Rachel and Oprah & Gayle are constantly and consistently seen together... well, maybe just Oprah & Gayle, doing all sorts of everyday mundane activities that are always 10x better with the pleasure of someones company: shopping, coffee-ing, holding hands and of course, partying until the wee-hours of the morning.

Now in the real world where every day ordinary relationships aren't so scrutinized, this isn't really new. At least not to me. Girls nights out, 'dates' and everlasting friendships have always existed with bonds that are so strong that they sometimes defy logic. I know: I have had the honour and pleasure of having such relationships that defy logic, escape explanation and just exist, as if we were created for each other. I mean, after I read the article I got to thinking about these relationships that I have with my girlfriends, and how close and important they all are to me in their own special way. With Angelica, Mackenzie, Christie and countless others in my life, my heart and on my mind I can't help but wonder... are girlfriends the new boyfriends?

In this day and age, a Manolo-lite can and does have a number of loves in her life. I know I do. My area of study, my family, my friends... although sometimes those terms are interchangeable. Maybe girlfriends aren't the new boyfriends... they're your new family. She's there when your man is not (if you have one; and if you don't she's that much more important), and try as he might the men in your life will never understand you the way the girls in your life already do. They can read you like a magazine; seeing right through your filler and pretty pictures to get at what's REALLY bothering you. They call you on your bullshit without making you feel like a failure, and the girlfriends who do that like my girl Mackenzie are the girls you want and need in your life. They see the real you... and love you all the same.

Maybe Charlotte was right in making her girlmates her soulmates, because really, it is just as hard, if not harder, to find a true girl friend than a good boyfriend. Break-ups with girlfriends are harder on the heart, your soul, your other relationships at work and at play because ... well, that level of intimacy took years to establish, and so will the pain of its sudden and often nasty endings. Luckily I have had only 1 break-up with a girlfriend of mine, and I'm twice as lucky since I still had and have the girlfriends who picked up the pieces of me while we all floated on ok.

One of those girlfriends... let's call her "Chris", is a girl I've known for a while whose friendship I can't even begin to describe. She is a girl of few words but when she speaks I listen. She has the uncanny ability to simplify whatever it is I am going through without dismissing the smallest detail to find the truth underneath the confusion. I credit her for smacking enough sense into me countless numbers of times, and most recently for getting me out of my destructive and abusive relationship with Philippe. She also held me up when my relationship with Vegas... Well, when it made me not want anything at all. Chris is my conscience: I don't know what I'd do without her. Kind of like the rest of my girlfriends, I'd be lost without them.

Don't get me wrong here, there are plenty of backstabbing, manipulative girls out there who pass themselves off as your friends but quickly shed their civil-persona to unveil their true nature. So that makes finding good girlfriends even harder. So this festivus season, let your girlfriends know how much you care for them; and the ones who must leave your life, let them know even more. Finding a good girlfriend in high school, in college, or in life, is like finding a diamond in a stock-pile of cubic zirconias. They all may look the same, but you'd never ever for a second think of trading away the diamond.

Just like your girlfriends.

Liquid Courage/Fluidic Stupidity

2006-12-13T10:08:00.000-05:00

The cause of, but not always the solution to…

Cranberry vodka’s are dangerous. Very dangerous. Don’t let the eye-pleasing red colour and smooth-but-sweet taste fool you; it is very dangerous. Unfortunately, cranberry vodka was my choice of drink for the previous posts holiday party with Paris… and apparently my drink was not the only thing that was smooth-but-sweet and red by the end of the evening. Or should I say the end of last week?

Homer Simpson said it best when he proclaimed “TO alcohol! The cause of… and solution to, all of life’s problems”. Except the whole solution to bit… haven’t quite figured that one out yet. At the current moment this is purely speculation on my part, but when Paris spoke to me today he mentioned that at the holiday party of horrors, I, who under normal (read: sober) conditions am calm and cool and collected, but most importantly guarded… let slip that he in fact broke my heart… and that he knew that it wasn’t a light hearted joke ( at the time I had tried to explain it away in my complete and utter shock and awe at myself for being so careless) as I followed it up with something witty and then promptly disappeared.

As you would expect, upon hearing what I had said in my inebriated and apparently courageous state I was mortified. Absolutely mortified. I mean, how could I have been so … open? So vulnerable? So emotionally slutty? Granted Paris has always had the innate ability to draw my secrets out of me with a look, a smile or simply just his presence but STILL… my GOD!

So what did I do? I couldn’t run away simply because we are in 2 different cities… which at this moment is working to my incredible advantage. My lame attempts to joke or explain it away over the phone were failing, partially because he knows me so well and partially… well, because I had nothing! No, I did what I always do in these types of awkward situations where I find myself unbelievably embarrassed; I said I had to go and stopped talking to him. And that was about a week ago. Luckily I was hospitalized for a brief period of time so I have the perfect excuse as to why I have been avoiding him… Well, and everyone else really.

But back to my point: I am partly mortified with my statement of ill-reprise of our are-we-are-we-not…-seriously conundrum of a year ago (never-you-mind what Blogger tells you; I had to re-post) because it is simply not true. Paris did not break my heart; he confused the hell out of me and made my heart ache… but not break. Only one man has broken my heart... no, wait, 2. 1 was my uncle who passed away not long ago… and the other is Vegas. I didn’t want to give Paris the impression that I categorized him on that level, where the emotional pain actually manifested itself into a physical and palpable form to the point of exhaustion. It hurt with Paris… but not that badly.

The other half of mortification comes from … well, my inability to speak the words I’ve written here about Paris to Paris without liquid courage, which we all know that in the best of times, it turns into fluidic stupidity. I don’t even know where, when or how I am going to explain myself out of this catastrophe… or even if I should. Maybe something’s are better left unsaid, or in this case, unexplained.

I just wish he wasn't so wonderful about it...

in solemn stillness

2006-11-26T19:27:00.000-05:00

to hear the angels sing...

Six hours after I had left my apartment, and after a harrowing rush through the airport and the check-in line at the hotel I was there. My prep-time had been significantly reduced, from 3 hours to less than 1, so with half-curled hair, rushed on make up and not-so-sticky sticky-boobs my girl friends and I trekked down to the basement and arrived for the party. I was greeted by familiar 'voices' and old friends and got lost in the conversations that arise when old friends, new friends and alcohol are mixed in an energetic and friendly atmosphere. Slowly but surely the entrance area filled with commotion, so much that I didn't even realize that Paris had arrived, slipped in under my radar and I can only assume was instantly swamped with admirers and colleagues.

I was surrounded by my girlfriends, but from the corner of my eye I saw him across the room... or maybe he saw me. Our eyes met for a second... and the next 15 minutes were spent with a glance here, there and everywhere, and before words were spoken a smile. I required a bit of liquid courage and Paris by himself... not only to speak to him in person, the first time in months, but hopefully to put me in the right state of consciousness to not get sucked back into the two years of never being different between us. I had determined to not let myself fall back into fog that was Paris... Another man in my life who left me asking 'what becomes of us?', hoping that this time, next time, some time... it will be different.

And it wasn't. Different, that is. Paris was, is and ever shall be himself. Calm and popular, effortlessly cool and magnetic. I got maybe 20, no, 30 minutes of sporadic conversation before being stolen away, or have him stolen from me... and I could tell and so could he just by being around each other that we no longer shared the same connection and understanding that came so naturally that we once had.

But oh how I missed him! The looks, the smiles, the piercing eye contact, the warm hugs, that kiss... friend kisses on the hand and the back of my head as he put me in a loving headlock... and just his presence was both nerve wracking and familiar at the same time. I'd see him steal glances of me from the shadows all throughout the evening as my girlfriends and I stole the spotlight. And yet... he never went out of his way to find me; I had to go to him. I mean, to his credit he did go out of his way after I had gotten his attention to be sure we could speak in relative privacy, but otherwise... it's been two years of never being different. And I guess it never will.

We spoke a few times more before he vanished for the night. I was informed, by someone else, that he was hosting a small after-party in this suite but as I arrived in my red dress and silver shoes my knocks on his door were met with silence, and I ended my evening the same way I started it; alone.

And now I am back in Ottawa... and although I know that he and I will speak again, I can't say the same about seeing him again. Paris' lame quasi-attempts to come to my city have thus far been few and far between... in fact, the only time I've seen him this year is when I made the effort to go. I doubt that I will attend another function like this, where he and I will meet in person, and as I turned to walk away I left any desire to return to see him on the threshold of his unanswered door. Again, we never said goodbye.

I think Paris had done all that he was supposed to do in my life; and now that he has, it is time to move on. Our connection was intense as it was brief; similar and uncanny like an uncharted island. However you can only stay on one island for so long before you get restless, needing to spread your proverbial wings and explore. But the most important component for me to move on, really and truly move on from him, is the fact that I finally realize that Paris, and any other man can not start or continue to drag me along pretending to want me when really, he doesn't. Paris' greatest lesson to me, is that I need someone who wants me just as much as I want them. And for that lesson I will forever be grateful to Paris... but nothing more.

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear...

2006-11-25T10:04:00.000-05:00

A glorious song of old...

Tonight I am going out for an evening of dinner, drinks and dancing... Very Old New York, seeing how it's a kind of reunion of sorts with people I haven't seen or spoken to in person for a very long time. There are old friends who have moved away, new friends I've kept in contact with.... and there are friends that are a bit more, shall we say, complicated?

I'm talking about Paris. I haven't seen him since June or really spoken to him since my decision to, well, stop talking to him. And since then we've spoke here and there, but nothing like we used to. Long conversations throughout the day, playful flirting and mis-spoken sentences have dissipated to 'good mornings' and 'have a great weekend'... you know, things you'd say to an acquaintance. I admit I miss the friendship we used to have, but I don't miss the mind-fucks I'd find myself in, unable and unwilling to move away from what was obviously destructive to my head.

To recap: Paris and I have had this quasi-but-not-really relationship for about a year now; we clicked instantaneously but only after he had left the city for another. I thought we clicked one way, he thought another, I put myself out there, he returned an ambiguous answer and actions that followed until recently this year. My summary does no justice but for the sake of my returning readers I must continue.

This evening, at a formal function (to which I am wearing a low cut halter v neck fire engine red Grecian style dress with fabulous silver shoes) with hundreds of people, friends and strangers... I'll see him again. This week he kept asking me if I was excited to go, excited to see people; which I am. I'm excited to finally meet the face behind the message, or the person behind the voice, or even more, the fuckwit behind all those rude comments. But I can't help but wonder what my reaction will be when I see Paris again. 5 months is a long time; in 180 days anything and everything can happen... and pretty much did.

When you make a decision to cut destructive personnel out of your life, whether it be because of embarrassment, bad chemistry or simple annoyance (I refer to people who bring the worst in you out for reasons you can't explain) you don't really plan on a reunion anytime soon. The risk of being pulled back into the fire is omnipresent, especially if there is music and wine where you and your excommunicated meet again. But at the same time I refuse to NOT live my life, especially when the party, drinks, food and lodging is on someone else's credit card.

So what's my plan? Look hot - act cool. Enjoy the evening with familiar friends and make some new ones; eat, drink and be merry... and be sure to return to my room the same way I plan on leaving it; solo.

The Feral Factor

2006-11-02T23:14:00.000-05:00

I have decided, among other things, that the outside world and its population of twenty-something men think me and most of my girl friends as some sort of Amizonian-type women. Seriously: most of the guys I've dated thus far have treated, or revered me I should say, as they would a wild animal, and although yes I am "wild" in the sense that I am unpredictable, spontaneous and can change my mind in the blink of my DiorShow covered eye-lashes... I wouldn't go as far as classifying me or better yet responding to me like a tiger in a cage.

Here me out here: it is an accepted concept that men aren't too sure how to act around women... anybody watch 'Everybody Loves Raymond' or 'The King of Queens' or any other crappy sitcom of that sort? Don't get me wrong here, it's the same with women... sometimes I am unsure about how to act around men and quite often manage to come off as either Carrie the Ice Queen or Carrie the Moron. So, as a twenty-something female, and more importantly a twenty-something female in a science field, I find myself categorizing the behaviour that I have experienced with the men I have dated... in the sense that it was either completely clueless or completely bogus. He either had no idea how to behave or act around me, or he had a twisted idea of how to treat me.

Granted nobody comes with an instruction booklet, but it has come to my attention that the twenty something men I've managed to find myself in a relationship with either have no idea or a freak show idea as to how to treat a Manolo-lite such as myself. So instead of observing how good men treat their women (and ladies you too... observing good women treating their men) he acts in 2 different ways: he is either too shy or too nervous to make a move on a "wild" and undomestic goddess, or he's too confident and thinks he knows exactly how to treat a "wild" and undomestic goddess.

Both of these traits make up what I like to call the Feral Factor.

A new breed of woman creates a new breed of man, and vise versa... which in turn creates a new set of behaviours. These behaviours can be seen in both men and women, and I've seen them in action. So far I have experienced 2 Feral Factors and both have successfully prevented or ended a relationship... factors I wish to share with you today.

Feral Factor 1 = The Avoidance tactic. From far away he learns and observes, keeping his distance physically, mentally and emotionally, all the while getting close enough and far enough to want more. In other words, these men successfully become intimate with women either physically, mentally or emotionally.. or all 3 if he is really good, without actually becoming intimate; he observes but never really enters your world. He lures you in with charm and ease... but never cares to remove the bars that prevents you from truly becoming one.

Feral Factor 2 = The trap and tame. Not only does this guy let you into his world, also luring you with charm and ease, but he slowly and deliberately begins to take over yours and eventually makes it his own. Domestication soon follows, along with a sense of learned helplessness, where what's yours is his and what used to be yours isn't really necessary in this new world he created with reminants of you in it.

Obviously Feral Factor 2 relates to my exs who couldn't take NO for an answer... at least not from me. Thats when you rely on the service of your local police force, as they are there to serve and protect. Remember gentlemen and ladies, stalking is illegal. Any man or any woman who believes that Feral Factor 2 is a correct or good way to treat a significant other is wrong: a relationship is not a commit or be committed situation. Each person is "wild" in the sense that they are free; free to chose, free to stay and most importantly free to leave.

No, it is not Feral Factor 2 that really bothers me to the core... it is Feral Factor 1. The intimaybe... When I wrote this I was still conversing with Paris; and that day he threw me off completely with his observations. He had managed to learn and observe my behaviour and even called me on some actions I subconsciously do... and I was blown away. I remember mention it to him, how I was shocked and awed of his indepth knowledge of me, almost intimate... yet we had never exchanged anything above a gaze or a hug. His response? "What... that someone listens to you and pays attention to you?" Apparently I am a person he likes and sticks in his mind... to him my smile "will light up the sky" and that objects "pale in comparison" to me... but I'm still not enough for him to cross the fence and join me in my world, or let me loose into his.

It is because of these factors, among other things, that each relationship ended or each relationship failed to begin. The underlying uncertainty of oneself and of others drove each person to act and react the way they did; and although I am not excusing their behaviour and any other persons similar behaviour... now I can sort of understand why this happens so that next time, maybe it won't happen again. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Only Me

2006-10-17T16:59:00.000-04:00

Aka your 1:7 billion...

Another recurring and scary trend that I have noticed during my run on the mating game is that men you have for one reason or another deemed as a 'friend' may not always have your best interest in mind. I suppose that is not something groundshaking or new; but each time it presents itself to me I am shocked... friends are friends: they hold you up when you are down, they convince you you're a good person/beautiful/not incompetent when you believe you're awful/ugly/ridiculously incompetent... and when being your friend is that simple, guys and girls do an equally amazing job. However once dating advice comes into play, why is it that a number of guys, ok, a number of my so-called platonic guy friends bring up the "only me" statements that misdirect the conversation from you and guy-of-interest to you and guy- friend?

I do not know if this holds true for every girl with a handful of platonic male friends; someone you've deemed as having a quality or two that makes sleeping with them completely unacceptable. But for some reason or another, and whether or not they have girlfriends or significant others, they slip in some passive-aggressive statements that make you think, or at the very least pause and stop, that they are the only male on the planet who understands you?

Now we all know that this is impossible: there are 7 billion people on this planet, which comes out to a better chance that you will eventually find someone or many someone's out there who understand you. Besides, he's your friend, a buddy and not a potential boyfriend. You know that and as far as you are concerned he knows that. Except for the fact that this notion has not stopped three, yes three of my platonic guy friends from saying at one time or another, and repeatedly in one way or another that they are the only guy I know who 'gets me'.

I find this notion both laughable and insulting. If a girl said that to a guy, if a woman said that to a man, she would be written off as psychotic, unstable and crazy.... but when a guy does it to a girl, if a man does it to a woman... he is a hero; a knight in shining armor waiting to rescue her from the black-hole sun that is her dating field.

Let me give you an example: while watching a movie with my platonic, wonderful yet completely unfuckable friend... let's call him "Pete", made comments to me throughout and after the movie about my many quirks that he supposedly noticed during the few hours that we were together; now it was a nice revelation to hear, however he followed it up with "see? and I am probably the ONLY one of your friends who notices these things about you; I know you." He's said those things before, emphasis his, on the only that he dishes out to hammer home the fact that he and he alone knows my soul...

Point of fact: a lot of people know my quirks and can read me like a book, some better than others. But just because you have learned to recognize my idiosyncrasies and my small neurosis and believe them to be cute does NOT mean that you can convince me that you and I are eternal soulmates when I have already filed you away under the 'friends' category. Congrats, you know me, but that's not enough.

Another example: a friend of mine, let's call him "Vince", is currently dating and has dated this one girl for quite a while, a string of women that never seems to end. I don't blame him; he is smart, charming, giving and apparently amazing in the sack. Who wouldn't want him? ... oh, well besides me. We are friends: we decided that a while ago and have had a wonderful relationship ever since... but he's let slip many many many times that no other man could treat me as well as he could, and that he's upset that he'll never get to show me what real romance is, and that he is the only living proof that good men exist in this world.... well, you get the point.

Point of fact: yes there are a LOT of Sketchbag McGees out there who do not treat women or anyone for that matter well. Yes I have had my unfair share of them. However, I have to believe that there are more good men out there than there are bad... otherwise how else would I explain why those nice guys are always trapped with those bitchy girls and vice versa? Out of ... let's say 3.2 billion men in this world, more than 1 will know how to treat a lady. Seriously.

I guess it is so upsetting because this kind of passive-aggressive sell is only dished out once a person-of-interest enters your life, and it seems as if they are subconsciously trying to prevent a relationship from beginning so as to not lose that sense of hope that maybe, one day, some day, you'll turn around and see the light, proclaiming your undying love for them. First they find something wrong with your new guy while playing up their strengths; then they keep reiterating how well they know me in comparison without understanding that oh em gee this guy is brand new and hasn't even had a chance; and then they advise as 'friends' that I be careful and that there are a lot of wackos out there (dually noted) and that they are 'always here' if I need them (yeahuh). This kind of behaviour is only friendly on the surface: they make it seem as if they are looking out for your best interest when they are clearly only serving their own.

Not too long ago, Vince let slip that when he knows that I am single, and I venture that it is the same for all girls with platonic friends who want more, it gives him a sense of comfort knowing that I am 'still available'. What I can't help but wonder is ... we discussed the fact that we would never date, each friend of mine and I... so why in the face of the facts does he and Pete and other guy friends still try to sabotage another man's chance of legitimately being with me?

Seriously; in this drama scare tactics and reverse psychology only work on the stupid. If you successfully scare me into believing that no other can do whatever it is that you magically can... then I won't love you. I'll settle for you. And is that really want you want, to be settled for? To have her say 'I do' when it's really 'You'll do'? Really. If I am not dating you, and remember I am single, it's because you're missing something that I need in order to have a relationship with you. Scaring me into believing that no other man could possibly live up to your place of superiority is not the way to find what you don't have that I need. Oh no; but it does gets me off. Pissed off.

Human Factor

2006-10-08T01:38:00.000-04:00

If all people are created equal, and when you think about it (biologically) we are, then why is it that some people are considered to be more equal than others?

What makes another person more than another? Ceteris paribis, Latin for "Other things being equal", why are others elevated while the rest stay behind?

I ask these questions and write this column because of a story I heard about an office, a story in every sense of the word because I only know of it as a rumor. And as a rumor, I know that it has a 50% probability of being ficticious. But from my experiences thus far in rumors, lies and outlandish willful participation in campaigns of mis-information, there is always a hint of truth hidden in these stories. Now this office story reminded me of another, the brilliantly tragic "Animal Farm" by the visionary George Orwell. Orwell wrote "Animal Farm" as a ficticious story with factual events and hopefully this column will turn out to be ficticious as well.

This particular office I speak of has a reputation of being all-encompassing, honest and harboring a sense of camaraderie. An ideal place to work for any person not quite comfortable with cutting proverbial throats or backstabbing, or better yet those people who left such behavior where it belongs: in high school. And I guess for a while this sense of belonging and appreciation from the company was real; employees were happy and it mirrored in the companies thriving success rate for so-many odd years that they have been in business. That is, until recently. A series of sweeping changes (none of which I know as an outside spectator) shifted this energy of equality and togetherness to one side... At first causing a bit of friendly competition between each sector of a well-oiled machine... That is, until the first hint of a company wide segregation came to light.

At first glance the use of the word "segregation" may seem a bit harsh, however in this context I believe it to be an accurate representation of the situation as I know it. I'd be lying if I said that I had not heard about companies, not just this one I am referring to, who have done what I am about to say... But every time I do hear it again, it hurts to know just the same. This company, and others I've known and even worked for myself, has the rumor flying around of a "selective" guest list at the company's Christmas party.

Yes, that's right. A selective company Christmas party... where some employees in certain sectors, depending on their "successes" (read: money making abilities) are invited to a dinner, drinks and dancing evening while employees in certain sectors who have been deemed expendable and whose jobs have been mistaken for erroneous are excluded from the only party and only "gift" so to speak that a company throws and gives for its employees...A party that is most likely expensed as a "business" cost.

Now correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the impression that a companies employees are the most important part of a business. From the perspective of an employee who has done her fair share of grunt work and has had her fair share of uninvites to Christmas parties, it is outrageous. It would be one thing if the company was going under; or if it didn't make a lot of profit this year, or if simply they could not pull the damn thing off. Fine. Shit happens, I understand. This is NOT the case with this company or with any company I know that has had selective guest lists at their Christmas parties . And while yes, the work that some employees do may seem unimportant.. until there is no one to do it.

The prime example I can give? Housekeeping, especially in a hospital setting. No one ever looks twice at a cleaner roaming the halls where doctors, nurses, surgeons and whatnot rush here there and everywhere saving lives.... But holy hell if the cleaning staff every disappeared the hospital and everyone who ever stepped foot inside those doors would be shit out of luck.

As it is everywhere really... The little things, whether it be housekeeping or data entry, get done by the little people in your company, people you may not even notice and people you may not know you need until they are gone. The higher you climb up that ladder of success, you might want to think about appreciating whomever is holding you up, doing those little things you simply could not be bothered with because someone else will get it done for you. A happy worker is a productive worker; and if your workers are unhappy you and your company will eventually fall.... and when you do those little people you ignored, segregated and otherwise demoted in this apparent hierarchy of humanity might not notice... and even if they do, they might not even care.

I realize that it is only October and that in the future I may end up being the erroneous one, but the sense of inequity that stories like this produce has no time limit... and seemingly no end in sight. I can't help but wonder what will happen in the not-so-distant future to those employees and all other companies who put their employees worthiness for appreciation into cold hard dollars and cents. It's not something you want to think about... until it happens to you. And let me tell you, the feeling that you actually have a monetary worth placed on your head by your employer ... it's a pretty shitty feeling.

The Champagne Year

2006-09-23T15:54:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow is my birthday, a day to sit back and reflect upon the year that has passed to see where I was, where I have been, and most importantly what I actually did and what I didn't do. At 22, although I'm still uncomfortable at giving up 21, I admit that I do not have an enormous wealth of knowledge of live, but from what I've learned during my short hour upon the stage that is life is that life is short, fleeting, and will pass you by before you even know it.

Isn't it funny how many people don't, or refuse, or neglect, or even forget to do something, or hum and haw at another, wasting precious time thinking of excuses that prevents them from doing the very thing they are trying so hard to avoid? Well... I think I've come up, well not really, but I've got a solution of some sorts to this little dilemma... at least for me. This solution is related to the impending arrival of my Champagne Year.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of a Champagne Year please allow me to elaborate: the Champagne Year is the year you turn the age of the day that you were born. So, for example I was born on the 24th, therefore my Champagne Year runs from September 2008 to September 2009, in other words, the year that I am 24. So as of today I have exactly 2 years to decide what, when, where and how I will spend my Champagne Year... oh, and how the hell I am going to pull it all off. My current guestimate is I will be entering either my final year of undergraduate studies, or have graduated already and maybe started some post-grade education or work. Either way, 24 is a great age, almost ideal to have as a Champagne Year.

The Champagne Year, for me at least, is like a marker: not set, as it is unique depending on the person celebrating, it's not scary like the dreaded quarter-life or mid-life crisis, and not as final as 50, or whatever age finishes the "____ is the new _____" sentence. The Champagne Year is meant to celebrate you in every way you can imagine. As the creaters of the "Totally Unique Thought" website say "Thoughts become things...." and trust me, you'll want to think about this.

I must admit that the idea of a Champagne Year is not entirely mine... or really, not mine at all. No, that idea came from a friend of mine after spending his 24th year travelling and seeing the world. Fitting, as on benefit of travelling at any time broadens ones horizons, exposes one to new cultures, and let's not forget about the shopping. Understanding all of this, my obvious choice for my Champange Year is to travel, which should come as no surprise. Europe is the hot bed for 20 something travellers either just beofre, in between or just after our education. With so many places to choose from, one could get lost in deciding where to go, where to stay, what to see and of course, where to shop. But after about a year of careful consideration I have decided where in Europe I will spend, at least one week of my Champagne Year, in Paris France.

Why Paris? Well... to be honest the closest I've been to France is that little bakery in the Market off of Dalhousie, or my manicure that I've already managed to ruin. I'd also like to explore and experience the so-called 'city of love' for myself; walk the streets of paris in ridiculously high heels, eat those famous French pasteries, smoke those fabulous French cigarettes, climb... well gaze up at the Eifel Tower, tour the Louvre, complete that Da Vinci tour and but of course, visit the accessories at Chanel. Going to Paris like this has been in my head for the past 5 years and as a result it is something that I've always wanted to do ... something that I would like to do, and I can think of no better time than to do something like this than a Champagne Year.

The entire idea behind the Champagne Year is to do stuff like this, stuff that in the dull reality of the 'real world' you would hum and haw over. The Champagne Year is a year of doing, of celebrating, of living your life the way you wish you could live. It may even be a jump start into a better state of mind. Maybe afterwards I and anyone else 'Champagning' out there won't want, or will not want to stop living life to it's fullest. And seriously, I can't think of a better gift to give to oneself for a Champagne Year.

The Times, They Are A-Changin...

2006-09-17T00:23:00.000-04:00

Or have they?

It ain't easy being a twenty-something, never has been and it never will be. Whether you're 20 or 29 it's the same story... Well maybe not so much after graduation from university and into the "real world" so to speak. But the point remains: it ain't easy being there or getting there. Not only are we unfairly stigmatized and stereotyped by previous generations (which deserves its own column of discussion) for being selfish, self-centred, self-serving and lazy, but for those of us who actually are trying to change the world for the better by seeking and obtaining a higher level of education, now more than ever we are at risk of dying because of it.

I am speaking of the recent shooting terrorist act that occurred in downtown Montreal's Dawson College that left one lovely girl dead and 2 more in the ICU, status unclear, and many more wounded physically, mentally and emotionally. I don't care what the authorities say; it WAS a terrorist act, as terrorism's primary goal is to promote terror. The fact that it was at a school; a place of higher learning, of education, of wanting and needing to better ourselves through the wisdom of others, be it from professors, friends or strangers in the hallway simply blows my mind. Maybe I have been away from the USA too long, but regardless of my present geographic proximity, I don't think it is right at ALL to feel petrified coming and going to my classes day in and day out.

The shooter, a 26 year supposed "normal-but" kid, apparently had no rhyme or reason for his actions; he just came in and did as he pleased without concern for anyone... Not even his family, not even himself. There were no warning signs... Outwardly. So then I ask, what the fuck happened? We could go back and forth, as many authority figures do when circumstances like this come up, about the different so called "causes" of this behaviour. Violent video games and television programs, isolation, poor adaptation skills, feelings of inadequacy and being an out-cast... All of which are interesting theories but don't really divulge into the true nature, the core of this persons 'reasons' for shooting random strangers. It would be ignorant to suggest that this 20 something was brainwashed by society; that he and others are simply unthinking sponges soaking up whatever is thrown our way, indiscernible, unchallenging, submissively, like some sort of robot or hybrid. Now, if anyone reading this knows a 20 something... We're NOT like that. At least, not the 20 somethings that I know.

At the same time Dawson College has made me re-think how well I really know people. I have been surprised on more than one occasion at the true character of people I thought I knew well; the best example being my ex "Philipe" who turned out to be a compulsive liar to everyone, even his family, and was nothing near to what he proclaimed to be. Granted my case is less extreme, as I am sitting here typing this out, but the end result was still the same; he left me with a sense of 'trust no one' and Dawson College is another step in solidifying that belief. If everyone close to the shooter, family included, was 'surprised' at his senseless act of violence, then what chance to the rest of us have? I mean, seriously! What the fuck is so bad in anyones life that the only solution to that problem is killing innocent strangers?? Maybe I'm a bit dated, but my idea of college/university life was not wandering the hallways wondering which one of these people will snap today, or I wonder where he/she is hiding that weapon?

So what is the solution? Tighter restrictions? Zero-tolerance policies? Disciplining those damn kids? While these measure seem to be winning the battle in the States, I am not sure if they are winning the war of prevention, which one ounce is worth a pound of cure. In my experience, and this is neither fact nor a theory, just my opinion... When restrictions are placed and they are rigid, unforgiving and unexplained... things have a tendency to get worse, but not on the outside. Feelings of oppression, anger and just being really pissed off festers within until one day it explodes out and more often than not, onto someone undeserving of that rage really meant for someone else. It's the equivalent of an overbearing and controlling parent or spouse in your life, except this one can throw you in jail and convict you of God knows what.

So what happens? Those charged with keeping us safe will have to enforce tighter laws and take away some of our freedoms in order to secure our safety. That may mean a bigger presence of Protection on campus, more police cruisers in student ghettos, more tickets being handed out for disorderly conduct and public intoxication, and random search-and-seizures of personal belongings that may or may not be considered a weapon. Thinking this through I can't help but wonder, is this the new and up-coming face of a 20 somethings, or to be fair, a late teens campus life?

College and University is, among other things, our last stop as 20 somethings in life until we reach so-called 'adult-status'; where marriages, mortgages, kids and mini-vans begin to dominate our life. It is our last hurrah of acting our age with total freedom from true responsibilities to have the time of our lives. I must admit I am sad to see our age of innocence disappear in the same amount of time it took for those bullets to hit those poor students (who are in all of our thoughts and prayers) but at the same time I have to understand that things have changed. As much as I enjoy my freedom, I also do not want to spend my last few years wondering if someone wants to live out a live version of duck hunt, using my friends or myself as targets.

I write this a few days after the incident, but at this time it still feels so surreal, like a game... Except in real life there is no re-set button we can press to try it all over again.

Oops!

2006-08-24T16:55:00.000-04:00

Oops: a summation of a relationship, however brief, torrid, or catastrophic, generally understood by all parties involved to have been a mistake.

I was attending a good-bye party for one of my girlfriends, let’s call her Emily, who in a few days is gallivanting to South Eastern Asia for four months with her boyfriend, let’s call him David. The majority of the party was her girlfriends, I included, except for one “happy” couple, and I use that term objectively. See, this couple constitutes one of my domesticated friends, let’s call her Abby, along with her boyfriend of over a year, let’s call him Bram.

Let me begin with the fact that I adore Abby; she is smart, beautiful, career oriented, comes from a good and loving, God-fearing family and is on her way to a fantastic job and a fantastic life. So it confuses the hell out of me every time I see her as each time is few and far between and she is almost always attached to Bram. It is simply mind-boggling to me every time I see him holding her hand, or with his arm around her, or Heaven-forbid kissing her. Maybe I should expand; Bram is a bit older than her, give or take 4 years, with a job but no career, not very attractive facially, physically, intellectually, anything? He’s immature, funny only to himself, makes inappropriate remarks and jokes at the worst possible times… basically he is a walking train wreck, except one you simply MUST look away from. So I had to ask myself, how did this gong show of a guy have my gorgeous girlfriend in the palm of his hand?

The first thought that popped into my mind was obvious; however Abby is a good girl, traditional and proper, so the “he must be good in bed” excuse is out of the question. Money? I ventured a guess that he spoiled her rotten with gifts, dinners, mini-breaks and the like… until the bill came at the martini bar we were at, and it was Abby who pulled out her credit card from her clutch while Bram kept chatting away, like he was expecting her to pay for the pleasure of his company, his food, is alcohol, and his dessert. Now I am the modern type of woman; I enjoyed treating my man to a dinner, a drink or 2, or a movie no problems; however an acknowledgement was always in order for each of us, whoever was paying; a thank you from Bram would have been nice, however it seemed as if a thank you, let alone a glance at the bill was the furthest thing from his mind. So it cannot be money. Company? As I alluded to before, Abby is... well, perfect. Given the chance she could get any man at any time… so why Bram? Then it hit me; Pity! This must be a pity date, or a pity quickie relationship! During the past year we all kept thinking that one day Abby would show up solo, smiling and laughing like before with a “just kidding!” look in her eyes… but it’s been over a year, and Bram is still around. So really, what is going on here? This isn’t the first case I’ve come across where a gorgeous, intelligent, otherwise perfect girl is in a so-so relationship with a guy her friends wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot clown pole. So why is it that this otherwise reject-of-a-guy is getting the fantastic girl?

I guess it comes down to what a lot of people have been telling me; guys are intimidated by good looking girls. That is why you see a lot of hot girls walking around, holding hands and getting married to less than hot guys. The nice guys and the hot guys are not making any moves, therefore leaving the attractive women ripe for the taking. The nice guy complains that there are no nice girls left and that we all want the jerks; to this I say, well then make a move before the jerk gets her! Personally speaking, not a lot of men speak to me for one reason or another, so whenever a guy shows interest and makes a move, I will most likely respond just out of curiosity or who knows? Maybe even attraction; but this chain of events cannot occur spontaneously; you must make a move in order to see results. Jerks and less than … worthy I suppose? Gentleman get the girl simply because they try; they put in the little bit of effort that the nice guy can’t seem to do and as a result, the jerks and less than worthy men get all the women.

And I find that frustrating; not only for my friend Abby, but for myself. Heaven knows I’ve had my share of “oops!” with men I shouldn’t ever have touched with a 10-foot clown pole, but I did because they put in the effort while the nice guys I really liked sat back and watched, shaking their heads and seeing fit to lecture me when the relationship didn’t work out. I guess the final word is this; nice guys, make a move; and nice girls… don’t settle for the less-than-worthy guy … except if you can explain it away as a temporary bout of insanity, otherwise known as an oops!

Beyond Our Front Door...

2006-08-21T02:36:00.000-04:00

I realize that the majority of my posts have been about stereotypical twenty-something issues with an extra focus on shoes; it is the prerogative of youth to act our age, however there is a time and place for everything, including the issues that nobody my age wishes to discuss. It is a common mistake, I know I do it too… I have kept my mouth shut when the right thing was to speak out, but never mistake silence for stupidity. As a young woman in 2006 I may not always say what is on my mind, but that doesn’t mean that I actually don’t have anything important to say.

My generation is notorious for our lackadaisical attitudes towards others; not caring what happens so long as it doesn’t happen to us. We’re unaware or worse, disinterested in the goings on of the world outside our social circle and at most outside of our sphere of influence. The “why should I care what happens?” stigma, I feel, is unfairly placed upon all twenty-something’s, at least myself and a good number of twenty-something’s I know. The confusion or misconception lies in the fact that although we are aware of what is going on in the world around us, we don’t quite know how to deal with it yet, or what we should or should not do about it. Contrary to popular movies that claim otherwise, twenty-something’s don’t think that they declared peace in the Middle East, we know that AIDS is real not just because Alicia Keys told us so, and that in comparison to 20-30-40 years ago the world we live in is a very different place. So to all the “adults” who look down upon my generation as a group of know-nothing-know-it-alls I say this: we’re conscious of our environment beyond our immediate friends and family; it’s just hard to make a stand on our principles when those in power aren’t listening because it’s already been decided that we don’t know anything. How can those of us who want to change the world if the world right now doesn’t acknowledge that we want to?

I bring this up because of the recent news article about the alleged bombing plot on 10 UK to US flights and other potential acts of terror that seep over the Atlantic Ocean into the back of our minds. As a frequent and already petrified traveler I find this news especially disturbing, not because I plan on flying in the near future, nor because my family, my father especially, tends to fly quite often. No, this disturbs me because as a human being in an insecure world, news like this should disturb me, despite it being about perfect strangers one continent away from my cozy cubicle in a safe (for now) country. I mean, one would have to be REALLY selfish or really removed from reality if a news article like this doesn’t affect you in the slightest. We’re social creatures: we all know somebody who flies/commutes/works/otherwise lives their daily lives. Some call me paranoid for being frightened, my mother to be exact, even though she herself hates flying; I’ve had friends and relatives remind me that you are safer in a plane than in a car, that the chances of this/that/the other actually happening to you are slim to none and every other cliché you can throw at me… but clichés are another topic that I’ll discuss later. Either way the end result was the same; I was scared before, and now I am scared stiff.

I guess its human nature, not twenty-something nature, to not want to think about events or happenings that has the potential to cause us harm or danger or anxiety, or to rationalize it away like my friends and family have tried to do in respects to my fear of flying. And personally, when I catch myself thinking about the social issues that will eventually effect my work, like AIDS in Africa, the ridiculous price of easily made pharmaceuticals to third world populations, and the overall lack of funding and attention my field received despite performing a critical function within society, I find myself frustrated at the external loci of control that for the moment is making all the decisions about topics I care deeply for. So what does one do? If I kept thinking about it eventually I’d find myself in a state of helplessness, that even after I get my degrees and experience and the skills necessary to make a difference I would have convinced myself through years of thought and doubt that no matter what I do or who I do it to, nothing will change. The idealism of my youth and the passion that drives me would have been crushed a slow and painful death by the distorted reality of the forty/fifty-something’s opinions on the current world we occupy. So I stop thinking about it all the time until the day I can actually do something about it, more than the monthly donations, the volunteer work and the education I give myself that keeps me close enough to make it real, but far enough to let me focus. To everyone outside our heads this seems pretty selfish, like we’re ignoring the problem, but we’re not. We’re just waiting for our turn.

Isolationism didn’t work for the States cerca WW1 and WW2; as hard as they tried to ignore the problems that were occurring a world away because in the end, geographic proximity doesn’t matter in the modern world. We are free to move about, as are those who wish us harm. We know that. We painfully, obviously know that to the point where we know-nothing-know-it-alls don’t know what to do. And for a stubborn independent twenty-something, that is not a good feeling.

But if you’ll excuse me, I have to go board my flight.

The Importance of Something and the Meaning of Nothing

2006-08-18T00:31:00.000-04:00

I think that one of the most frustrating feelings one could have while engaged in the dating game is the feeling of something that is missing, especially when you can’t place your finger on that “something”. Granted the entire idea of dating is finding out whether or not you are compatible with someone, and really when you think about it you’re going to get more misses than hits… but still. The moment of realization that this person you’re seeing may not be “the one” is always a let down. It’s not that there is anything wrong with that person… it’s just the fact that they are not right. You may not be able to concretely describe why this person is not right but deep down you know; and I guess that’s all the proof you need.

Last night I saw the teacher, a guy I met not too long ago with a profile (and jaw-line) that looked promising. He’s a bit older than I am, and although I understand that older doesn’t necessarily mean more mature, I prefer to see men who are at least 2-3 years older than I am. The teacher is attractive, intelligent, has a good job and a set routine, he’s great with kids and so relaxed, which is a nice opposite to my overactive mentality. We’ve had four or five dates and things were starting to appear promising. But last night was different; something was off about me, about my body, about my mind, so much that I had to stop what I was doing (and that wasn’t easy, let me tell you!) and think. It was like I had just run into a window pane of foggy glass. Apparently this “something” was quite noticeable, as even the teacher noticed the change in my mood, saying that he had never seen me so “pensive” and “gone so long without you talking”.

I have had the pleasure of meeting many people such as myself: that although I may not always say what is on my mind, if you know them/me well enough you can simply read it off their facial expressions and body language. In this case with the teacher, it seemed confusing to him but so obvious to me. I have a good understanding of my body language and how my mind works. I’m stubborn, so answers or warning signs that are clear to others often takes a bit longer to sink into my thick head, and I think that’s what happened last night with the teacher. I finally realized that something was off, and it was bothering me all night until this morning when it finally clicked. When it comes to the teacher, although he seems to have everything he is still missing something that I need:

Butterflies. He doesn’t give me butterflies, not when I see him nor when I think of him. And that is what I am missing. That is my “something” that has the potential, and probably will, to prevent me from dating the teacher. It is the “something” that I simply cannot do without, because without it what we have is … well, nothing.

I guess that’s the downside to knowing yourself too well; you know what you want and what you don’t want… but most importantly you know what you need. As nice as the teacher is, as cute and smart and oh-so-attractive, that something is missing; something important enough to make me reconsider our quasi-relationship.

I will admit that I am young; 21 to be exact, not really what one would call “seasoned” in the game of love. However I have been in love and I have been in relationships that feel right… well at least they did at the beginning, and I’ve been stuck in relationships that have felt so wrong I had to escape. So in a sense I know what I should be feeling and what I shouldn’t, what I need to feel and what I need to pursue a relationship with someone who fulfills those needs.

With the teacher I am content; I am not unhappy but at the same time I am not exquisitely joyful. And it’s not because of anything he has done or hasn’t done. We get along just fine, we’re both somewhat attracted to each other, we have similar interests and can make the other laugh. Now on paper this sounds lovely, and being with him is nice… but that’s all it is. The butterflies are missing, and I can’t trick my body or my mind into believing something else after experiencing what real love is like. I can’t, and nor should anyone else, fool myself into believing that a 5/10 relationship is worth it or good enough. I guess what it comes down to is this, my third dating mantra: Give me Butterflies, or Give me Space.

Some people call it butterflies, some people call it the zsa-zsa-zsu. Either way it’s that feeling in the pit of your stomach of nervousness that makes you feel excited and alive. Butterflies can change the way you breathe, the way you eat, the way you act, the way you speak. It’s the initial contact, the first touch, glance or stare that takes your breath away… and with the teacher it isn’t there. And that made me sad… but at the same time I do not believe in settling for an ok-relationship when I could find someone who gives me butterflies. As sad as I am in light of this fact… I don’t settle for anything else in life, not for shoes, not for education, not for friends, and not for me; so why should I settle for something as important as a potential lover? Settling for an ok lover makes absolutely no sense, and any lover/boyfriend/significant other I taken on must at least give me butterflies.

We're one, but we're not the same...

2006-08-14T23:24:00.000-04:00

I really hate it when people should me. You know, “you should do this” or “you shouldn’t do that” or “you should be …..”, especially when the should relates to any and all events that contain emotions. One thing that I have learned in my studies is that there is a difference between sympathy and empathy in the sense that although you can relate to what someone is going through, you cannot truly know what it feels like for them simply because you are not them. Just because you had experienced a similar situation to someone doesn’t necessarily give you the right to decide where someone is in their recovery, or decide for them what they should do (see, there is that word again!). Particularly when you’re dealing with matters of the heart. As critical as your friends are when it comes to overcoming heartbreak, I can’t help but wonder how much help anyone can be with something so individual, as often I’ve found myself justifying my emotions rather than expressing them.

I was recently speaking to a guy about this, and maybe that was my first mistake, as men seem to be able to repress emotions better than women, about an ex of mine, Vegas actually, whose story still stings my chordae tendineae despite being two years over. This guy friend of mine, although well-meaning and wonderful, should-ed me in respect to the fact that I still am not completely over him… like I was wrong or inadequate for not being able to “look him in the eye and say ‘whatever I’m over you”. When I tried to explain that what happened really hurt and that since it didn’t happen to him it would be hard to understand, he shot back with a previous break up of his. Now under normal circumstances this would be all good and well, as empathy is always welcome when the heart hurts, however in this case the girl he broke up with that was so painful… well they are now engaged, not to mention that he got under his own free will and mind a permanent reminder of her etched on his body. So maybe I am missing something here, but all I could focus on was the fact that although yes they had broken up, yes both had experienced heart ache not unlike my own, their story had a happy ending, or should I say a happy beginning come this time next year at their wedding.

Half of me wished to respond in kind: to say “Well can you look her in the eye and say ‘whatever I am over you?’… Oh that’s right, no, because you looked her in the eye and said ‘marry me’.” Don’t get me wrong here: I am truly happy for them as they are wonderful people and even more wonderful together, but that fact, that ending negates all credibility in him emphasizing with my situation. What started out as a similar notion of love lost and pain found ended very differently for the two of us. In short he got what he wanted and I did not. He said those words to her that I wanted to her from my ex, but my ears are still half-straining for words that will never be said and an ending that will never happen. It confused me and still does now how he could say something like that knowing full and well that coming from him that expectation is baseless. It is one thing to be a “survivor” so to speak, of a particularly bad break up and to have successfully moved on and ask me why I haven’t been able to do the same. Granted I’d still be pissed off but I would understand: coming from someone who was there and maybe still is there, I can listen. But coming from someone who was there for a short time only to have their hope fulfilled and their wishes come true to ask me why I haven’t gotten over someone? It doesn’t seem right… maybe because it’s not.

The other half of me can see where this attitude is coming from. It is unfair to categorize this kind of behaviour to just teenagers and adolescence, the idea that “nobody understands what I am going through because NOBODY has hurt as much as I have/like I have… I’m such a victim”. In that scenario I can see how that kind of attitude is annoying, selfish and self centred. However I am well aware of the fact that there are people out there in the world who have suffered far more than I ever will in every sense of the world, that heart ache and loneliness has existed before I was born, and yes I have hurt, but the world goes on whether or not I chose to join it. Understanding all of this and trying to avoid the spotlight effect, it still hurts when someone expects me to be something I am not or do something that I simply cannot do right now, especially when it’s about love.

Current research suggests that the old cliché of your “first love” has a scientific basis; that when it goes awry it will always hurt the most and more disturbingly will always be permanently etched in your brain and heart. This is so because before your first love our minds and bodies did not know what love was, so during that first intimate or adult relationship your brain is creating new synapses and connections, much like learning a new language, that you refer back to when you think of love, thus referring back to the person who helped create those synapses, those connections between your higher brain functions and your heart. So in a sense we are chemically doomed to refer back to our first love as a basis for our subsequent relationships where “love” is re-stimulated. It is a bleak picture, but it makes sense; therefore I am not surprised that I am not fully over him and know that I never will be.

Individual experiences are just that: individual. Just like you cannot literally feel another persons physical pain, such you cannot completely understand another persons emotional pain. Knowing this, it is very difficult for me to accept another person’s obligations or expectations when it comes to “getting over” anything in accordance to their schedule no matter who they are or what they have gone through. Seriously, I can barely follow the bus schedule to get places on time, let alone something as important as my emotional well-being. I guess what I am trying to say is… To put it another way, a similar injury, say a myocardial infarction of similar strength and severity, can harm one person and kill another. Such is the pain of the first love; a similar injury of similar strength and severity, which I guess in this guys mind is the case, can harm one person (him) and kill another (me). You wouldn’t chastise the patient who died from a MI, or make the comparison to their family in regards to why one survived and one did not, so why chastise someone for a slow emotional recovery, or for not recovering at all?

The bottom line is this: His story and my story and all other stories are all completely different situations. I appreciate his attempt and all other attempts to emphasize with my pity-party, however you shouldn’t “should” someone. Your recovery is your own, however way you want it to be and however long you want it to be. If you’re reading this and hurting about something remember this: don’t let anyone dictate how long you should feel bad; you know yourself best. Don’t let anybody should all over you.

Cheap & Easy

2006-08-10T13:21:00.000-04:00

... and not as good as you think!

It’s simple, it’s cheap, and it’s plentiful. Take it easy, I’m talking about food, fast food to be exact. Just walking down Bank Street this afternoon I am inundated with inexpensive meal options, just begging me to take a look and see exactly how much food I can get for one low ridiculous price. Me being a student and more apt to spend my hard earned money on clothing and shoes and the occasional book am instantaneously attracted to this, knowing that the less I spend on food the more I can save or more likely spend at the mall. However, me being a student of life sciences, I also know better… or at least I know to know better regarding what I put into my mouth. And yet I still find myself oddly attracted to the fast food nation, McDonald’s specifically, thinking that every time I eat there will be different, I won’t feel sick to my stomach afterwards, and I’ll be just fine. Obviously I am wrong, but hey, it’s the prerogative of youth to act our age once in a while.

I admit, I used to frequent McDonalds on a semi-weekly basis, whether it be a quick breaky with my roommate, an inexpensive dinner and hang-out place with Angelica and another one of my friends, let’s call her “Christie”, or a late night or early morning snack with my clubbing and McDonalds friend, let’s call her “Kelly”. An ex-boyfriend of mine used to chastise me (among other things) about eating at McDonalds as often as I did. At first, well now even, it really pissed me off. I mean, I’m 21, don’t you think that’s a little too old to baby-sit what I eat? Especially someone who is studying life science, I’m pretty sure I have a better idea of health and wellness than my ex who… well, wasn’t even in school. Apparently watching Oprah and Dr. Phil gave him license to “fix” whatever was “wrong” with me, including my selection of eats. Anyway, back to my point: I ate at McDonalds knowing full well that it is bad for me, I saw “Super Size Me” and loved it, but immediately following headed for McDonalds. Afterwards, and every other time afterwards, I couldn’t help but begin to speculate as to why I continue this obvious self-destructive behavior of eating bad food while understanding the consequences.

Cheap food is bad for you, but it’s bad because it’s so cheap to make… and knowing how cheap it is to make, it’s just gotta be bad for you. It is a vicious cycle that nobody had quite yet figured out how to completely break free from, and I mean absolutely no cheating whatsoever: not on birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, stagettes…

The funny thing is, and I can’t for the life of me figure this out, is that the diet “pill” phenomenon makes millions of dollars a year selling us … well, crap. Crap that either doesn’t work, works momentarily, or works so well that it kills you. So we’ll shell out the 30,40,50$ for a bottle of “miracle” weight loss, and yet when it comes to purchasing food that is already healthy, won’t make us fat or won’t clog our arteries we’re suddenly skittish, even shy and sometimes downright resentful for having to spend that little extra on those “healthier” choices.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on those so-called “healthier choices” one can find in today’s vending machines. Last time I checked, diet Coke is still Coke, except we’ve replaced sugar with aspartame. Oh ok, give me more chemicals rather than something that exists naturally. There’s the ticket to everlasting health! Something else that I find amusing is that those “healthier choices” are more expensive than the usual crap… which doesn’t make much sense. You’re charging me .25 cents more for a bottle of water that contains 2 hydrogens and an oxygen molecule, plus some sodium, maybe potassium… and yet for a bottle of soda that contains considerably more ingredients/chemicals/dyes/whatever, it’s cheaper?

I mean after these fries I really don’t have to eat for the rest of the day, or hell maybe even the rest of this week! But I will; I have to. My body, although currently in the 21^st century, still believes it’s back in the days of famine, of starvation, of hunt or perish, kill or be killed, so it will hoard most of this “energy” I’ve consumed and save it just in case all the grocery stores sink into the earth and I am left stranded with the little food I currently have in my fridge… if I even have food in my fridge. My body doesn’t know any better, but that’s ok. That’s why I have a mind. That’s why I can think, because I can, and I should. I should really think about what I’m putting into my body if I am going to demand optimal performance out of it. Maybe I should stop fueling it with crap.

It’s not like my body doesn’t know the difference between healthy food and unhealthy food. Oh, it does, and I sure as hell paid for my choice of fuel the day I wrote this. On Thursdays I venture to the gym for a 2 hour cardio session; 1 dance and 1 kickboxing. Under normal (read: healthy) circumstances I love to dance and can let the music move me until I can’t move anymore… only to recharge with Powerade or whatever and kick-box/karate chop my way through another hour of high intensity exercise. Last Thursday after my 4$ meal at McDonalds I could hardly move. I was sluggish, inconsistent, tired and just plain awful when I glanced into the mirror to check my form. It felt as if my body was actually punishing me for eating garbage for lunch by making my limbs that much heavier, my heart more sluggish and unwilling to beat quicker, my mind wander into the blissful peace of sleep… in the middle of a loud and sweaty dance studio?

That being experienced, I’ve learned my lesson. It’s a misconception that if one works out, one can eat whatever the hell one likes… but that’s not true. My athletic body is slowly but surely rejecting junk food, at least for lunch, and if I plan on keeping this active lifestyle as I age then I’d best learn what it means to eat healthy or more plainly, to follow my own advice. Drink lots of water; eat fruits and veggies and lean sources of protein, whole grain carbs and the occasional sweet treat. I mean, what is the point in spending all my money on hot clothes and shoes if I am too fat or too skinny to wear them well and do it justice?

But if you’ll excuse me, my breakfast coffee is getting cold. D’oh!

It's Just A Little Crush...

2006-08-05T16:19:00.000-04:00

Wanted: An object simply to crave…

As the title suggests, I have a crush. Well, this isn’t news. I’ve had this particular crush for oh… 3 years now? Yeah, three years. The entire concept of this crush is ridiculous; I am 21 and the term crush is usually reserved for pre-teens and adolescents who are too embarrassed to admit when they like someone in fear of the repercussions … however I think we’re all just big kids at heart, so although I am admitting to the world of a crush I have, I’m still going to keep his name somewhat hidden. For those of you who know me, you probably know who I am talking about, but either way, I have to protect the innocent… ie me. Does anybody else remember when crushes used to be fun, and you didn’t have so many things to think about except your dream wedding with that person and the happy life you’d lead?

Anyway, on with my story: I have a crush on a certain athlete (every woman’s prerogative, of course!), let’s call him “Charlie”. Now “Charlie” plays for a local professional team in my city, a city that just happens to worship this team through good times and sometimes even through bad times. I first laid sights on “Charlie” when I was a bright-eyed 17 year old attending a rookie-tournament with my father and brother, as I was raised right to first appreciate the beauty of the sport and then the beauty of the players. He did not stand apart from the rest of the team at that particular moment; however there was this glimmer of excellence behind those lovely blue eyes that showed drive, passion and perseverance, all very attractive features in a man. Not to mention that after I got home and Google’d his photograph, well, off the ice he is just as pleasing to look at. Afterwards, I was hooked. I officially had my latest celebrity crush, thinking it would be similar to all the other celebrity crushes I’ve had in my short life.

Except this time I guess, it was meant to be different. “Charlie” is about… 2 years older than I am, so 23. Ok… usually I tend to fall for older men, meaning I’d solidify the fact that I simply have no chance in hell. “Charlie” also spends the majority of his time in this city… as do I. Ok… usually I tend to fall for men who have absolutely no geographic proximity to me at any point in my life. “Charlie”, being the typical 23 year old, oh except with millions of dollars, endorsements and women throwing themselves at him, goes out and enjoys the bar scene in this city. Ok… I am known to sometimes dabble in the cirque that is the bar and club scene downtown or in the West end… I guess what I am trying to say is, this is my first celebrity crush where I actually have a chance to meet “Charlie”, maybe even say a word or two.

However, and yes, there is always a however, it’s really not that simple. I’m not saying I am a celebrity, famous or even important in the grander sense of things. But I do know important people, and I do represent important people at times. These important people happen to know people who know “Charlie”. Hmm.... this puts quite the damper on my little crush. How so, you ask?

I had a recent (and very frustrating) chance that I had chosen not to take which would have ended up with me meeting “Charlie” at an intimate (read: small) location. After regaling this story to my girl friends, all of whom shared in my pain, I got to thinking about this crush in the grand sense of things and about how, as much as I would like to act on my impulses regarding “Charlie”, in reality I really can’t.

Allow me to explain: given the chance I would gladly make out with “Charlie” in a closet, or out in the open, whatever. Except I know that I’ll never get that chance, not because I am not pretty enough or I do not know the right people, but because my mind will always get in the way. First of all, when I mention this crush to my girl friends most automatically assume that I want to meet “Charlie” just so I can sleep with him and that is not true… for the most part. I generally like to know a person first hand before sleeping with them, and really all I know about “Charlie” comes from 2^nd hand sources, or a friend of a friend of a friend of a guy who knows him. It really is the equivalent of sleeping with a perfect stranger who happens to be famous. If he wasn’t famous, would you sleep with him right off the bat? No, I didn’t think so. “Charlie” may be young, hot, successful and wealthy, but he’s still a person and not all twenty-something female-fans are so quick to give it up… or at least I am not. To any and all twenty-something and thirty-something female fans who can meet an athlete at a bar, go home with them and think nothing of it; good on you, and I am not be factious. I personally am not strong enough or secure enough to do so; and what’s not for me may be exactly what the next person finds appealing. Happy is she who follows her own path. Mine just happens to take me away from suddenly sleeping with “Charlie” if I ever meet him.

Now because of obstacle number one it wouldn’t be so simple afterwards, hence obstacle number two. Under normal circumstances regarding celebrity athletes a fuck-and-flake is perfectly acceptable; you sleep together and never see each other again, or maybe once or twice at the bar. Oh no… it is not so for me. See “Charlie” happens to know and be around people that I know, and not just any people. Remember those important people I mentioned? Yeah; them. Can you say awkward? Because I can say that would be totally humiliating and really not worth the fleeting pleasure of an I-know-you-but-it’s-still-a-one-night-stand-kinda-thing.

Finally, the obstacle I currently find myself in, the third and most common obstacles to crushes is that secret crushes hardly ever stay that way. I can safely say that an entire community well known to the people who know “Charlie” is fully aware of my school-girl crush. I don’t care how old you are or how mature you are perceived to be; I already feel a slight twinge of embarrassment just thinking about how I’d be introduced should I ever get the chance to meet “Charlie”. It’s true that when you’re introducing people you should add in a fact about them, like “she’s studying this”, or “he does that”… but for some reason judging on the reactions I’ve gotten from this community the introduction would probably go a little like this: “Oh this is Carrie, she’s had a thing for you for ages!!” All in all I guess

You know, for something once so simple like a crush, I’ve managed to make this pretty complicated. The more plausible your day-dreams are to come true, the closer you get to realize the fantasy, the closer you get to the reality of having to think about your actions, or non-actions in my case, which can be quite the task when you are actually given your daydreams on a silver platter or satine sheets. So all of a sudden after having to think about “Charlie” actually being present in my life with all the people I know… My crush … sucks. I mean, so long as you don’t think about them crushes are a lot of fun but in the end “Charlie” is just another guy, like Paris, that I can’t seem to be able to get without complications.

If I think about it, and I obviously do, this crush of mine is kind of discouraging. I mean, one of the pleasures of a crush or a dream is the hope that one day it may come true. So in short, thanks to me thinking things through about the chances of me actually meeting “Charlie”, that crush has been effectively... well, crushed

As If! Carpal Tunnel and the 20-something...

2006-08-01T08:18:00.000-04:00

Because seriously... I can't make this shit up...

As I sit here typing this, I still cannot believe that I am actually writing about carpal tunnel in the 20 something girl. It seems surreal, as your twenties are the times when you (should) be establishing or have already establish a good level of health. My good friend Mackenzie and I always joked that the human body is made only to last about 40 years in good health, so if you’re active really that number drops down to 20. And until recently, we did not know how right we were… at least concerning the two of us.

I am well aware of the fact that there is a distinct difference between having pain in your wrist and having carpal tunnel. I subscribe to the first definition; my left wrist (as in my non-dominant hand) was strained due to my over-zealousness in a yoga class... oh and from years of being a keeper in soccer… right along the ulnar nerve. So along my pinkie-line there is random pain that really is all my fault. The reality that I continue to use my left hand for everything except writing does not help the fact, thus my wrist injury can be written off as a “repetitive strain injury”, or RSI. Mackenzie, however, was and is not that lucky. I know that she had been mentioning pain in her wrist for the longest time, and although I advised her to see a doctor we both dismissed the idea of anything more serious because really, we’re 21! We are both relatively fit, practice yoga and do a bit of cardio… So imagine the surprise when a doctor, a trained professional, told her that she “definitely” has carpal tunnel in her wrist.

FYI: Carpal tunnel syndrome occurs when the median nerve (running from the forearm into the hand) becomes pressed or squeezed at the wrist. This nerve controls sensations to the supine position (ie up, because in supine you can hold a cup of soup!) of the thumb and fingers but not the pinky, as well as impulses to some small muscles in the hand that allow the fingers and thumb to move. The actual carpal tunnel, a narrow rigid passageway of ligament and bones at the base of the hand houses the median nerve and tendons. When these ligaments become thickened from irritated tendons or swelling in general the tunnel narrows and compresses this nerve. The result may be pain, weakness or numbness in the hand, wrist and sometimes up to the arm.

Besides the annoyance of having to purchase and wear a 40$ brace (mine was 12$) at night and during classes to stave away the pain, the truth about her condition really had me and still has me stunned. From what I know, CT usually only occurs in adults, and although I know 21 is considered “adult”, CT is not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of an average 21 year old. CT is more common in older women and those who do repetitive assembly line work, such as seamstresses, warehouses, manufacturing etc… So knowing this I can’t help but wonder; where does a 21 year old pick up carpal tunnel?

The first and most obvious theory would be technology. At school Mackenzie sits behind her iMac in lecture, at home, and wherever she takes her baby with her. I remember back in grade 4 learning how to use a computer, you know, one of those old-school Apples with a tiny screen and 2D graphics? Was that the beginning of the end? Did all those recess’ spent playing “The Oregon Trail” put me on a path (so to speak) of weak ligaments and pinched nerves at the ripe old age of 21? Granted the introduction of computers to my grade school open my eyes to the wonders of technology, but did it also open my joints and ligaments to the repetitive strain normally reserved for those who have progressed further in life who, for lack of a better description, have earned their aches and pains over the years? Considering many people with CT have worked for 10 or 20 odd years behind either a typewriter or a computer, and both Mackenzie and I are stuck in 9-5 office jobs only to return home to our beloved laptops to Facebook and MSN our time away… could the advent of modern technology be behind our frail and weak joints?

That answer, like many that quick and unthought-of, simply cannot be true. A study done in 2001 done by the Mayo Clinic found that so called “heavy” computer use, up to 7 hours a day did NOT increase a person’s risk of developing CT. Mackenzie’s mother, along with my mother and father and many of our senior colleagues have been using a computer for longer than we have been alive, and none so far have been diagnosed with CT. The advent of ergonomic keyboards and mouse pads, the research going into prevention of CT cannot be ignored, nor can the non-prevalence of CT in our more mature colleagues.

Anyway, what is even worse than being diagnosed with CT is the expectation that because we are young we can “suck it up” or “deal” with the pain thanks to the supposed infallibility of our youth. Erm… no. Just because we are young doesn’t mean we do not feel pain, and since we’re going to be around a bit longer means that we should take every precaution to take care of our bodies. I found it funny how the “adults” in my life often remind me that I am not invincible, that I cannot get away with 3 hours of sleep, unhealthy food and lack of vitamins… however when it comes to legitimate pain such as CT we’re expected to “suck it up” and stop complaining… So really, what’s the deal?

It would be too easy to blame work and school for the onset of Mackenzie’s CT; as she said, her work is not paying her enough for her to ruin her body, especially for a twenty something girl who now has the ligament-annoyances of a forty year old woman. I am still at a loss for poor Mackenzie and her mysterious affliction of CT, but if you will excuse me, all this typing is making my wrist hurt.

La Belle et Le Dumb Ass

2006-07-28T21:17:00.000-04:00

I’m so over, I need a new word for over.

I’ve decided to add, amongst other things, another mantra to my ever-expanding set of dating standards; one of my very close friends, lets call her “Mackenzie” came up with our first and very useful manta of “Wow me or else I haven’t much use for you” has proven very effective in my not-so-effective search for a good date. However I realize that manta number one, although broad and umbrella-like, does not expand to those men in my life who have managed to wow me but at the same time have left me hanging. I'm talking about those men who play these games of red-light ~ green-light with me until… well until I’m just about ready to turn around leave the playing field altogether. Maybe those in science, or those who have read and remembered Angels & Demons by Dan Brown will know exactly what I am talking about, but for those of you who do not, I introduce Carrie’s 2nd dating mantra for the Manolo-lite: “Substantiate or Suffocate”.

Substantiate or Suffocate, Publish or Perish, or more specifically in this situation, Prove it or Lose it. Like with any good research and in the end good dating involves a little bit of research in the field about a person(s) you are interested in, either you prove your theory or get out of the lab. This theory I speak of could be one of two things: either we are good together or we are not. Don’t get me wrong here; we could be good together as friends, but not on the dating scene. Either way once you’ve managed to extract the information you need to draw your conclusions, publish or share your thoughts and either move in or move on. The absolute worst thing you can do to a potential lover is keep them on the line by dragging out your “experiment” for any reason whatsoever. I don’t care if you are curious to see how intimate you can become without actually becoming intimate, or if you can get that guy or girl in bed without having to call them your boy/girl friend, or even call them at all. There are plenty of guys and girls out there who are looking for that, but for those of us who are legitimately looking for someone to love and be loved by, leave us the hell alone.

I mean, it is one thing to keep your distance at the beginning of a relationship, when at first you are unsure of the other persons motive, but that stage usually lasts oh … 3, 4 months? I mean, if you are sleeping with them or suggesting sleeping together then already you are way beyond the point of understandable distance. If you know what you want, or what you don’t want, then say something. Substantiate your need and share it with those implicated, otherwise you’ll end up suffocating not only yourself but the person you’ve involved in this twisted little game.

But the game can be hard to quit, especially when it is orchestrated by someone you want. Even intelligent women can fall into this trap of ambiguity, believing that something, no matter what it is, is better than nothing. Sure it sucks to be alone and life really is much better with someone you have “something” with, but when that “something” begins to stifle your confidence, your style, and your life? I find it hard to believe that something that is supposed to be an incredible experience can in the end leave you in a bind. Is this "something" really better than nothing? I guess I am about to find out.

I stopped talking to Paris. Well, not really, but we no longer speak the way we used to. I am very good at speaking from a soap box from behind my computer screen, spilling my idyllic opinions, but really my words don’t count for half as much as my actions. It is one thing for me to type out my beliefs, especially one as important as this, but it is another to act on it. So I’ve stopped speaking to Paris… and trust me, it is so hard.

It is not as simple as me not liking him anymore. Oh no. He is still the coolest of cats, the hippest of men in my life, and the embodiment of unrequited awareness to the point that if I continue down this path of ambivalence with him I think I actually might choke on the words that go unsaid. I may stumble over my words when I am tired, overworked and underplayed, but I can no longer allow something as natural as my emotions trip me up and distract me from my existence.

It seems to me, and I may be wrong that the modern man either wishes to dominate the person he is with or be dominated by them. I know plenty of girls, myself included, that inadvertently found themselves in a dominating relationship. These changes occur slowly, almost unnoticeable until it is too late. Some, like me, fight back while others allow it to eventually take over. If these women are happy this way then so be it; happiness is subjective. However, being dominated 100% of the time is simply not my bag, baby. Nor is being the dominant one in a relationship. I do not wish to control my significant other, what’s the point? I can hardly control myself, especially now that surprise sidewalk sales are popping up along these crowded streets. Nor do I find it empowering or liberating to be in command of all the aspects of a relationship, oh no. That is way too much work for anyone to take on, let alone a modern Manolo-lite such as myself. I have enough trouble being in command of my laundry.

However, and there is always a however, I can’t help but wish that there was a slightly more mature way of dealing with a toxic researcher. I understand completely that my not speaking to Paris is completely immature and juvenile, but what the hell else am I supposed to do? The hardest part is… well, Paris knows me too well and sensed that something was up or “off” about me the second the phrase “Substantiate or Suffocate” rang in my head. He knows that something is up and has even asked me about it… but I know that if I even hint at beginning a conversation it will not end the way I want it to. I know how that looks, like I want to control the situation and him instead of having it the other way around. Trust me, this is not the case. I simply want control back over myself, and that cannot be too much to ask. Except… I think he is on to me. He (after initiating a conversation and failing to get what was “up” with me out of me) no longer says good-bye or anything civil… he didn’t even end the conversation, he just let it fade away.

Why is it that when I finally catch on to the games people play and using this knowledge to impede its proceeding, does another game begin? It is so easy to say, and in a sense it is true, that this entire thing is his fault, but in the end, it’s still my problem. I’m sure he cares about me… but that’s not enough. I’m still suffocating and what I need right now he can’t give me: a breath of fresh air.

You've Got Male!

2006-07-24T18:16:00.000-04:00

Zen and the Art of Internet Dating

As odd as this may sound, maybe not so much anymore, I have found and received (and had delivered right to my door!) a lot of great things from the internet. For example, I take pride in saying to whoever compliments me on my favourite red dress that yes, "I got it from the internet"! More recently, my straightening iron from a power seller in the States and a box of green tea from Mighty Leaf in Canada have helped to reduce the gong show that is my (current) morning routine. So if Ive been so lucky in finding material and food goods from the internet with little to no problems, I can't help but be curious: why not try finding a man on the internet, or at the very least a date?

I know what you are thinking: "Carrie, that's SKETCH CENTRAL. Why don't you go out and meet people the normal way?" To this I reply: Thanks Einstein, but I already knew it was sketch central, but so are bars. And clubs. And shopping malls. And the gym. And anywhere else I've met these so called "normal" people. It is an overly-simplistic view that psychopaths ONLY congregate on the internet, leaving those of us who surf only to check our emails, check our status on the almighty Ebay, or Google the latest eliminated pair on "So You Think You Can Dance?" in consistant danger as supposed to being out there with the so called "normal" people out in the physical world. Hmmm... last time I checked you have a better chance of running into a sketch-bag at Bulldog than in my apartment through a computer screen, but who knows? I might be wrong.

Not to discount completely what you say. There is of course the risk of meeting a psychopath online, thank you "Dateline", as the greatest advantage to online dating is being able to hide behind a screen, but I've met my fair share of psycho-men in real life and let me tell you, it's a hell of a lot easier to shut your computer down, or remove your semi-anonymous listing from the site than changing your locks, moving out of your apartment and informing the police. So as I sit here sipping my internet tea, I ask the question: what is the good, the bad, and the oh em gee of internet dating?

I read an article once about how the semi-prevalence of ADD in todays society is in fact, caused by todays society. The fact that we as students, as workers, as friends, and as lovers are being asked, no, demanded, to multi-task and do as many things as possible all at once; like typing this out while working and on the phone sipping my non-fat-double-foam mocha latte. So if the amount of tasks we have to complete in a day have doubled, maybe even tripled, yet the number of hours in a day have clearly not, where and how is the modern girl supposed to squeeze in time to hunt for or be sought after by a man?

Enter the match-makers: you know, the well meaning friend, co-worker or even boss (don't laugh: it HAS happened) who know the so-called "perfect guy" for you and when it turns out that they are, in fact, NOT the perfect guy for you the situation just gets messy. Don't get me wrong here; match-makers are great. Their job or hobby is a lot harder than you think, and dating in general is a hit-or-miss situation. However the best person really to play matchmaker with your heart is you. As well as your girlfriends, or guy friends may know you, in the end you and only you know exactly what you want, who you are looking for, and what you are looking for.

Which brings me to my point: I've heard of a few internet dating sites, mostly from watching late late night television prevalent during an insomniacs morning. I agree that the majority of internet dating sites are sketch: the Ashley Madison;s and sites like that which encourage "exploration" while in a monogamous relationship are not the kinds I am speaking about. That is something I hope I never have to experience in any way, shape or form. No, I am talking about those local sites that are always advertised on the radio or in your email that really nobody pays attention to.... or do they?

I couldn't help but remember my first run-in with internet dating: I was 17 and in Toronto visiting my cousin, who at the time was just about to turn 18. She had met this guy, apparently really nice, on Lavalife and spent the evening before we were to meet on the phone with him. Seriously, I went to bed and she was on the phone, and I woke up and you guess it, she was still on the phone with him. I was going as a sort of escort, which was good on her, however not 2 minutes before he walked over to us she turned and said to me "Oh by the way we are 19 and you go to university." I stood there flabbergasted at this outrageous lie, as I was clearly in high school, grade 12, with no idea what it was like to be in university, and the same went for her. If my cousin, someone genuinely removed from some types of reality can fool a person she met on the internet... what chance do regular people have?

I was listening to the Team 1200 one morning, or evening, I don't remember, when I heard the advert for one local dating site named after the infamous cherub, or Saint really, who makes February the reason for or bane of ones existance depending on if you are in a relationship or not. Figuring that I had tried the usual bar scene and got sick of it even before I could legally drink, and my lifestyle being what it is (read: not condusive to meeting said-normal people) I thought "hey, what the hell? Let's give it a shot". So about 10 minutes later as I sat in my sweatpants and scrunchie, I created my very first internet dating profile. I didn't expect to get a lot of hits, especially since my profile has but a silhouette instead of a photograph, but you know what they say: nothing ventured, nothing gained. I figured the last date was so greviously awkward I really had nothing to lose, except maybe 10 minutes of my time. So I filled out the little boxes with descriptions of who I am and what I am looking for, clicked "saved" and off I was. This site claimed to be able to "match" you with men who, according to your profile and his, would be suitable for each other. Me being skeptical said "yeah uh-huh ok let me take a look for myself thank you very much..". So I did.

And herein lies the rub. The problem with internet dating is that to me... when I was searching through this sites datase, it kind of felt and still feels like I am picking from an inventory of single men within 50 miles of my area code. It was like a "Google" search for a soulmate. Not to sound judgemental or anything, but it felt... well, awkard. You open up someones profile, headed by the usual one-liners, punch lines or song lyrics, take a look at what they say about themselves, and maybe even a picture of 2, and you go from there. I found myself being really, how do you say, picky, when choosing the people I'd actually click on/with... and about after half an hour I just got sick of it.

As modern as we are in the 21st century, and as fabulous as it is to search for a significant other while in your panties without it being awkward, it really isn't as fun as searching in real life. Real time glances, eye contact and flirtatious moves cannot be replaced or replicated onto a server, no matter how good the site you sign up for is. Not to mention doing all of this while looking drop-dead gorgeous.

By the way, the date that my cousin ended up dragging me along to was hilarious. They had spent the night speaking to each other so much that when they finally met face to face, they had nothing to say. So, thanks said-internet-dating site, but no thanks... I'm sure you must have tonnes of matches out there for me just like you did for my cousin... now if only I could remember to check my inbox... I guess I'm too busy living life in real-time to find a soulmate online.

Pulling the Trigger

2006-07-21T11:15:00.000-04:00

If you had what you wanted in your sight would you pull the trigger, or would you hesitate?

To that question I would like to think, as most of you would as well, that if I had what I have wanted for a while, whether it be an object, an idea, or a person, I would not hesitate to act in order to get what I wanted. Granted, getting a person is different as you have a whole other set of feelings and emotions, not to mention baggage to deal with, but you get my drift. It seems so mind-blowingly obvious that yes, of course I would act! Why wouldn't I? However I know a lot of people, myself included, that have stalled in the face of obvious victory... To which I wonder this: why do we fail to act when what we want is within our reach?

This notion seems black and white: act and you shall receive, yet really when all things are equal, getting what we want is a shade of grey. Why do we hesitate, and we all have, knowing that in a moment our "prey", be it a crush, a purse, or a promotion, can slip away? I know the story, I've heard the cliches: your co-worker next to you, or your fellow student, did not get that promotion/9.0 GPA by sitting on her ass. *Insert famous person here* did not get *whatever made them famous* without action on his/her part. And I didn't get that last pair of mint green pointy toed sling back BCBGs for 40$ by waiting for them to literally come to me. So why the hesitation on some things? Why do we stop and think about items we want the most, only to see someone else grab the prize?

A Manolo-lite, or anyone really, cannot wait around forever. Not for a job, not for that Nine West shoe in your size at a sale, and most certainly not for a significant other you would describe as a "catch". You cannot describe someone or something as a "catch" unless you have caught them. And that involves pulling the trigger.

It's one thing to know what you want to do, or who you want to be with. That's great, I mean, you're almost there. But almost doesn't count. The fact that you are acting, that you are actually doing something is commendable. I know a lot of people who are either stuck in or cemented to a state of mediocrity who refuse to act unless their life depended on it. But herein lies the rub: your life DOES depend on it. Who else is going to live out your life? Granted your actions however small they are get you moving, but not everything or everyone will meet you half way. And any previous actions mean nothing if you cannot seal the deal; the problem with hesitation is that opportunities do not wait, and neither do I.

Hunting for what you want, working towards it, whatever, requires patience, perseverance, and passion. I'm not talking about an instant gratification, but a slow burning desire for something or someone that you've had in your vision. Maybe it's that degree you're studying for, or for that promotion at work you're applying to, or that special someone you've flirted with for months but can't seem to cross that threshold of friendship into intimacy. You figure, "well nothing is going to happen anyway" so you do nothing... Therefore nothing happens because you're not pulling the trigger... You're not even giving yourself a chance to.

I understand that pulling the trigger is easier said than done; that it is embarrassing, nerve-wracking, and sometimes just plain crazy. However, and there is always a however, the victory at the end when you finally get your hands on what you want, is insurmountable. The pleasure is indescribable. I know this because I have experienced both: the pleasure of achieving my goals, and the pain of knowing what I could have had, what I could have done, or who I could have done, had I simply pulled the trigger. And let me tell you, the latter hurts a hell of a lot more than any action I have taken to achieve my goals.

So ladies (and gents), if there is something in your life that you really want, and I mean really want, go ahead and pull the trigger (figuratively, of course). Apply for that job or that program. Buy those ridiculous cheap shoes. Ask that girl/guy out. And even if it's not meant to be, it's a lot easier to move on knowing the truth rather than living on misguided thoughts of maybe's and whatifs.

The Best Date I've Ever Been On...

2006-07-18T00:14:00.000-04:00

because sometimes, all you need is yourself... and a big bag of popcorn.

I find it fitting that I wrote this on the back of my ill-fated Do/Don't List: a small tally I keep of the guys I see that I would either Do or Don't when I find myself solo and totally bored. I've been thinking about a lot of things I do that apparently most people perceive as "fiercely independent", the List being one of them. However, the first thing that popped into my mind as I was walking today would be the dates that I go on ... with myself. More specifically, the movies that I have seen, in theatres mind you, by myself.

A lot of my friends whom I have discussed this with, agreeing that while it is completely within my character to do so, would at the same time be mortified beyond belief if they ever had to go to a movie, or found themselves at a movie, all by their lonesome. "How pathetic", like being stood up, convinced that if they were in the very same situation the whole world, or at least the people around them at the moment, would stop and stare, point and laugh at the poor dateless-friendless wonder, sitting alone and lost in a dark and dreary theatre, wolfing down an extra-large extra buttery bag of popcorn...

But guess what. What others might believe to be pathetic, I perceive and believe to be the greatest assertation of independence. To my friends who have teased my flying solo in public with "I'm not pathetic's" I answer ... well, I'm not insecure.

The way I see it is simple: I'm a very spontaneous individual who likes to do what she wants to do. I live by myself; therefore I am accustomed to and enjoy the pleasure of my own company. I no longer have a roommate who I can get to tag along on my misadventures, but that doesn't mean my misadventures are no longer lived out. What is the difference between going out alone and sitting at home alone? Granted one is cheaper and requires less movement, but really, in the end you're still solo... In my case, I choose not to hide from the world, but to embrace it, even if it's only me. Just because I don't have anyone with me wherever I go doesn't make me a loner, an introvert, or a loser. On the contrary; I have a lot of friends, some times too many friends that I have problems managing them all in between my already hectic lifestyle. So I do have people that I care about and who care about me, they simply are not consistently around me and I am ok with that.

Especially when I am watching a movie. Seriously, I am not even talking to you for 2 hours, maybe even 3, let alone looking at or paying attention to you for that matter. And really, I don't care how good of a friend you are, if you knew me and my movies you probably wouldn't want to join me for my 3rd viewing of "The Da Vinci Code" in theatres, or my 4 pilgrimages to "Batman Begins" when it was still playing at the cinema, and I understand that. Nobody in their right mind would want to see a movie 3 or 4 times with me in a theatre, but that doesn't mean I still won't go. Just because someone else isn't there with me doesn't mean I will sit at home and be stagnant. I simply do not need constant company to validate my existence, or more accurately, feed my addictions to my particular favourite movies I like to re-watch and re-learn from.

I feel that going to a movie by yourself in public is a sign of courage. You are openly saying to the world "hey; I'm alone, and I'm cool." Why should the fact that I am single prevent me from going on a movie date? Or going anywhere in public, especially areas where happy couples congregate? It is 2006; as an independent, Manolo-lite female, I have the right and duty to live my life to the fullest, whether I am attached or not. So really ladies, screw sex: movies by yourself, by myself, is probably the most liberating act I've ever done and will continue to do for myself, by myself. You should give it a try; and you single men too. Go on a date with yourself. Take yourself to a movie. Make it whatever movie you would like to see, whether you've seen it a million times, plot lines be damned, sit your fabulous-ass down with popcorn, candy and a drink for dinner, and enjoy the pleasure of your own company doing exactly what you would like to do. Except while you're on this date there will be one obvious difference - you will be free; free of worrying if someone else will/won't like the movie, if you're eating too much or too little, if what you're eating will actually go in your mouth and not down your shirt... I can go on and on. The point is; I go to movies by myself, and I enjoy every minute of it.

Ambivalence

2006-07-16T09:56:00.000-04:00

One thing that I have noticed about Paris, and all other men I subsequently have a train wreck of a non-relationship with, is that they are all really ambivalent. For those of us who are unfamiliar with that term (I was until Monday evening), ambivalent is characterized by a mixture of opposite feelings or attitudes; or uncertain or unable to decide about what course to follow. I say this because of certain … actions, as I have come to accept that words are simply a vibration riding on a mixture of carbon dioxide and nitrogen; that have pulled me in one direction or the other and of course, have left me totally confused. Why is it that some men or at least the men I attract/am attracted to thrive on presenting me with mixed signals? Is this all some part of a big twisted power pulling game? Because let me tell you, starting a relationship with some sort of competition only leads to failure, you know why? In any kind of competition, there is usually someone who loses, who is defeated. Seriously guys, games are for children, and unless you are in to that, (which if you are then stay the hell away from me), hear this: if you are looking for an adult relationship, or a relationship with adult perks, then quit the mind games. You’re making me wonder if guys at any age know whether or not they are coming or going.

I once thought, and I guess for the most part still do think, that dating is all about finding a person you mesh with; someone who as completely them self you click with. You get along with, you compliment. I get that some guys are looking for a challenge, and that some of them are looking for an easy lay. Fine, whatever. So, if the majority of guys know what they want, whatever it is they want, then why bother with the mind games? Why the cluster-fuck of push-and-pull statements and actions that make us believe one thing one day and another the next, or even worse, only act part-way on one belief and part-way on another.

I know what you are thinking: “He’s just not that into me”. Oh, if it were that simple; I’d be a lot happier if Paris and all the other men had said to me “yes, I am just not that into you”, or more realistically just said “yes/yeah/grunt” to my exit strategy I present. Paris didn’t, even when promised that nothing would change and I was true to my word. I would also be happy if not for the fact that every time I manage to convince myself that Paris is “just not that into me”, he does something that makes me believe, and everyone else who hears what he does, that he is clearly and painfully in to me. I don’t care what Greg says, when a conversation includes topics more appropriate for the bedroom and not the boardroom, as I was at work when this happened and I was lead to believe that so was he, chances are the guy likes me.

However, and there is always a however, lately Paris has cooled off; we still speak, but not as frequently and not as freely, well at least not today. I could come up with excuse after excuse as to why this is happening; oh he’s probably busy; oh he’s taking his time in responding; oh he’s stepped out of his office; oh he’s away from his phone… but I know that in the end they’re all bullshit. So are all the other excuses I’ve made for the men in my life who are too good to be true and too ambivalent to be a real contender.

Now it would be unfair of me to simply blame those ambivalent, ambiguous men I clearly adore and adhere to. I would be lying if I didn’t say that as a twenty-something girl, I have been and usually am of two minds. There are some days where the loneliness is palpable, and if I have to do one more stupid errand by myself I think I will explode; and yet there are other days where I am reminded how great it is to be single and how much I hated being chained to my boyfriend, and how much I value my independence and free will. My ambivalence gets to me and subsequently to all the men I am currently quasi-seeing. Sometimes I want them to call me and take me out, but there have been other times when I simply forget to return their phone calls. I am not confused on purpose; trust me, I hate being confused. And I hate mind games too… which is why I can honestly say that I haven’t lead on any of the men I’ve had dates with, or at least I don’t think I have.

I guess ambivalence is a two way street; clearly I am projecting the fact that I am ambivalent when it comes to relationships, is that why I seem to attract men who are ambivalent as well? Like attracts like, so I guess the key to finding someone who knows what they want is to know what you want.

Knowlege is Bliss: Ignorance is Bothersome

2006-07-12T22:13:00.000-04:00

Numbers were designed to explain; but how the hell do you explain this?

I admit; I am a shopaholic. I love shopping, I love the thrill of the hunt, especially when I find or am presented with a bargin. I’ve decided among other things that with my single status going on 9 months I’ve replaced sex with working out, shopping and various forms of education. I had been looking for a way to combine these distractions to ease an already hectic schedule of being single and fabulous (!) and luckily for me all three of my diversions appeared at the once place where I go to relax: the gym. Today’s generation of Manolo-females and us Manolo-lites are of two mindsets. We are either exercise-addicted health fiends or lazy couch-bums who gorge on all the fast food/junk food we can get our hands on. I subscribe to the fitness-trend, with a sprinkle or two of the pleasures of fast food, and as such I was at my gym yesterday, a gym that I have been a fiercely loyal client for the past 5-going-on-6 years of my life, despite the bad-rap it has gotten with its rude employees and money-hungry managers. Angelica and I were walking up the stairs after our exercises, one of the front-desk agents stopped us and asked if we would like 3 tans for 10$. What began as a seemly harmless gesture ended up being a semi-battle of wills which as a consumer I don’t think I should ever be involved in.

I said no, stating that I do not tan and also tanning is dangerous, especially in beds and besides, I’m already a good colour to start the summer season. The front-desk-agent, let’s call her “Ana”, proceeded to give both Angelica and I the sales pitch of how tanning is actually safe, how it’s the UVC rays that cause cancer from the sun but are not present in tanning beds, how you establish a base by tanning therefore reducing your risk of burning in the summer etc etc etc; all to the dismay of myself, a student of life sciences and more importantly an educated and informed consumer. I retorted with facts straight from a doctor that tanning is actually dangerous, any kind of tanning, as it causes mutations in your DNA leading to melanoma, or in other terms skin cancer. Here is where things get funny; Ana, sensing Angelica’s pull towards my point of view, decided to break out the “well we all have cancer card” to sell those 3 tans and help the gym make their quota of tans. Now, I am not a business-savvy person, and I could not sell any product if my life or my Manolo’s depended on it, but could someone please tell me what the hell kind of sales pitch is that? “We all have cancer”… I was so in shock I couldn’t even articulate myself to this kind of ignorance. I hate to break this to everyone, but we all don’t have cancer. Our healthy cells at this very moment are ensuring that we do not have cancer by either fixing the mutations that are occurring during DNA transcription, or failing that isolating and destroying the cells with the mutations that they cannot salvage. So why would I want to put that glorious mechanism through more work unnecessarily, especially after helping it out by exercising for 2 hours? And even if I do have or get cancer, I wouldn’t want to waste my immune cells in destroying a form of cancer I can easily avoid, like skin cancer. I’m of the opinion that you don’t “get” skin cancer, per say. You give yourself skin cancer by not protecting your skin either outside or inside. And to have Ana trying to convince me to PAY to give myself skin cancer? Does anyone else see the ludicrousness of this concept?

Apparently not, as the people this gym decides to employ certainly think otherwise or at least they are trained to think otherwise. I think the most aggravating part of that conversation was the fact that we were the only clients she stopped to give the special “discount” too. Was it because we were girls? Or was it because our generation is addicted to that pseudo-glow we get after spending 20 minutes in a tanning bed? Skin cancer is on the rise, especially in the 18-35 brackets of consumers with disposable income. It is a testament to our instant gratification mindset; instant tan, instant weight-loss, instant “health”? Yes you look better with a tan, but only on the outside. The damage that can be done where it counts, at a molecular level, is irreversible and dangerous and plain old stupid. I find it ironic that the gym I belong to, a home-grown success that claims to put health and wellness as a top priority for all its clients, pushes a product that is known to cause cancer and to use the excuse that well we all have it, might as well look fabulous while we can. Why don’t you just sell me cigarettes while you are at it? At least those puppies calm me down after listing to this projectile ignorance.

Now I try to make it a point not to down-talk anything I haven’t tried, with the exception of foods that everyone knows is just plain nasty, like eyeballs (don’t laugh; I’m sure they are a delicacy somewhere). I have been tanning in a bed before to see if a) I would really burn less with a base, b) I look and feel healthier and happier, and c) just to see what the big deal is. Let me tell you, I still burned when I went overseas despite the base I presumably established and SPF 50 I slathered every day, I looked tan but not happy, in fact I looked just as tired as I did before, and the tan faded within days so in order to keep up the façade I had to return multiple times, and c) … there is no big deal.. You get naked, slather cream on your body, put goggles on and lie there for 10 minutes. The lotion smells lovely but that’s about it.

An interesting thing I had noticed after going tanning for a few weeks was after a while I would feel better after I tanned, kind of like an instant pick-me-up, almost addictive, so I can understand all those tanorexics out there who simply cannot stop going to their local tanning salon. I have a friend like that, Daisy, who tans frequently and for long periods of time. She feels better afterwards and the glow is quite nice, but up close her skin looks aged despite the fact that she is younger than I am. I can only imagine that in a few years of continuous multiple tanning sessions, Daisy’s going to look 35 before she is 25, which is a shame because she is a pretty girl who got caught in the tanning-frenzy that is my generation.

Knowing all of this I eventually had to turn away once another front-desk-agent started to give Angelica the same “information” that “Ana” had just finished speaking about. Seriously, just because 2 people who work at a gym tells you something is safe doesn’t make it so, especially when a doctor, a dermatologist who also happens to be a friend of mine insists that it is not. Really, I don’t care where you work, with the exception of a hospital and I am calling you doctor or nurse, because in the end a gym and any other corporation’s main concern is with the bottom dollar. They had a quota to fill, and we fit the profile of who could do just that for the company for that month.

But in the end Angelica and I walked our pasty-pale asses home without the 3 tans for 10$, because although the inner shopahoic tells me that is a good deal I’d much rather have that 10$ and a few extra years on my life than a fake-and-bake tan, helping to display for everyone to see my gullibility and the pleasure I receive from destroying my own body. Except I couldn’t help but wonder if this is how my generation is perceived, as mindless spend-thrifts looking for the next instant fix to all our problems, whether it be darker skin or quicker weight loss. The Manolo-female has paved the way for younger versions of themselves to follow this trend; I certainly hope any Manolo-lite who is reading this now will join me in avoiding this lemming-trap and spending our hard earned money on something worthwhile… like shoes.

My Exquisite Pain

2006-07-05T19:10:00.000-04:00

Since when did an oxy-moron like this make so much sense?

I have decided that I am one of those people that like pain. No, enjoys pain; THIRIVES on pain, because seriously, any sane person who does not enjoy pain would not torture herself the way I do. Let me explain. As I have said before; communication is key, a powerful key that can either make or break a relationship. In most cases communication is a great thing, except when it is used to the advantage of one person over the other. I mean, there is one thing with using or withholding communication to keep me interested in you; it is another thing completely to use it to keep me hanging. Paris does this to me, although I don’t think he means to, and if he does then my god… how I hate it and love it.

We’ve always been on the boarder line of friendship-and more, and in the half hour we had together he managed to send me a barrage of mixed signals, ones that say “we’re just friends” to “I want to be more”… a casual “we wouldn’t be a good pair” is counteracted with a literal pick-me-up-hug, face in my neck and hair, and a pause with each other, distanced but close… I don’t know. He says one thing and does another… and I don’t know what to believe.

The problem is this: I didn’t do anything about it and I still don’t do anything about it. It’s not that I am not woman enough to tell a guy how I feel; I already did. And I got burned… well, not burned, but I didn’t get the answer I was hoping for or better yet expecting based on the signals we were sending each other since… well since we met each other. Once I’m rejected, with guys or with anyone in general, it doesn’t matter if it was done as nicely as possible and with good and valid reasons. The fact remains that I am twice as shy when it comes to exposing myself again in such a vulnerable fashion, especially for someone as independent as I am.

Half of the time we are fabulous friends; we get along swimmingly, have great casual conversations, and overall friendly fun. The other half… let’s just say I do NOT talk with any other guy like that unless I was interested in more; learning more, being more, getting more… you catch my drift. The topics are deeper, the conversations longer, thoughts provoked, ideas exchanged… not to mention the fact that he’d do me good, just based on how well he can stimulate my mind.

I hadn’t seen him in a long time and according to a platonic guy friend of mine, there isn’t a guy in the world who would meet anyone for half a hour unless they liked me. Fair enough; I know he likes me. Liking someone is crucial for any relationship above a casual acquaintance. But the touching, hugging, hair-playing, pausing, overall closeness mixed into the friend-only bits of conversation? I don’t know.

And not knowing is driving me insane.

Paris has it easy; he KNOWS how I feel; I was woman enough to put it out there, and yet here I am, at the mercy of a man, wondering how the hell he feels about me, about this, about us… and it is literally making me mad. Bloody hell!

I think… I think, he is giving me enough to keep me close, to keep me wanting, to keep me interested in him. But he is not about to give me exactly what I want, and would prefer to keep me on the line until… until what? Guy friends and girl friends tell me Paris likes me; so what is the hold up?

Greg Behrendt of “He’s Just Not That Into You” fame, wrote that if a guy was truly interested but couldn’t do a relationship for actual reasons, that he would let you know immediately instead of keeping you hanging. Paris let me know immediately when we had the conversation-of-ultimate-awkwardness that his issue was his alone; and that if that issue was not present then there would be no problem. SO is that what Greg is talking about? And if so, then why continue the mind games when clearly he knows what I want from him?

Or does he?

It’s not like I have been sitting around waiting for him to pull his head out of his ass. I was semi-seeing The Medic a few months after our conversation-of-ultimate-awkwardness occurred, and I even have another date with an Officer McDreamy. I just wish I could stop thinking about Paris when I’m trying to move away. Maybe he’s like me in the sense that we don’t want what we can’t or won’t have in front of our faces, but that doesn’t me that we don’t want them within eyesight. So then why is it that neither of us can truly hang on to the other but at the same time can’t truly let go?

To Want or Be Wanted...

2006-06-30T08:09:00.000-04:00

whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

They say that hope is sweeter than possession. Obviously whoever said that must either enjoy the sensation of pain or they have never really possessed anything worth holding on to. Now I don't know about you, but if I had the choice of either hoping for a pair of Jimmy Choos or possessing a pair of Jimmy Choos well... do I even have to answer that? So why is it when it comes to love, do I and many other women out there keep falling for the men we simply cannot have? And I'm not talking about celebrities here; I'm talking about real people; tangible, palpable people that you interact with on a daily, weekly or monthly basis. Oh sure, you say you're just friends but really... one of you or sometimes even both of you feel that extra little bit. And it's funny how that extra little bit can make things a whole lot more... complicated, that is.

Being on both sides of this predicament is a challenge, but not to up-play la douleur exquise, it's a hell of a lot harder being the want-er rather than the wanted. I know this because I've been both and while being the wanted is a great ego boost, it's not without its moments of awkward and feeling like an unintentional tease which is without a doubt the worst kind of tease there is. Either way, knowing that you are wanted is a power-trip as supposed to being the want-er where every moment spent talking to that person, being in that persons presence, feeling those feelings that you just can't help in the ends up making you feel pretty powerless. Right now I'm in the unique situation that I've found myself being both the want-er and the wanted. And I'll tell you right now; it sucks.

One of my ex's, let's call him "Vegas", has decided recently that he made a mistake when he broke things off... 2 years ago. He's come up with excuse after excuse about ending our relationship, and although I must admit I was heartbroken, it is also in the past. I picked up and moved on... apparently Vegas didn't get that memo. I stay in touch with him for old times sake, but I can't see myself with him again. I love him, but that kind of love is behind me and I have nowhere to go but forward. Vegas... well, despite attending a top-rated post-secondary institute in a challenging yet very rewarding program, cannot look to the future without being reminded of his past. Now, this is all very sad, but I am of the belief that both of us should not be made to suffer for his decision. The phone calls, the concerned looked, the drinks and conversations are all well and nice, but nothing is going to happen. In this case I am not the one that got away; I am the one he let go, therefore only he should live with that.

I don't mean to be an agace. I returned emails and phone calls out of politeness but more so curiosity. I have to admit it is always vindicating when an ex comes crawling back professing their stupidity and regret, but after a while the "I told you so" high fades and reality begins to sink in: that while this person may have toyed and crushed your emotions, that doesn't give you the right to toy with theirs. Unless they deserve it, but most of the time they don't. So how do you stop being wanted? You don't, that is not in your control. As it turns out, it's the want-er who has the power in this relationship.

Not to say that being the want-er is easier. Absolutely not. It is an exquisite pain, seemingly by choice to the outside viewer but really, internally, if I could stop wanting and re-gain my emotional posture, believe me I would, and sometimes I do. Sometimes everything is just fine and your relationship is neutral in a sense that it is so good it's bad. But then that person goes and does something that pulls at your heartstrings, or stirs up the feelings that just won't stay suppressed that I and many other of my girlfriends find ourselves tripping head over feet and landing smack on our ass.

There is this guy who is currently ma douleur exquise... let's call him "Paris", and has been for a long time. Our relationship didn't start that way; in fact it never does, but as hard as I tried I simply could not resist. It started out with the little things. A look here, a joke there... There was always something about him that I couldn't quite put my finger on, and once circumstances changed it grew to a conversation here, a similarity there... and then it got even deeper. I've known Paris for a while now, and I don't know what it is about him, but he can literally see right through me. Unless I am actually clear as glass, to which then I reply "oh" but... he can. And it's scary; normally I have to be poked and prodded and BEGGED to talk and give information and whatnot to people I don't really know but with him... I literally have to hold my tongue and not talk to him on the phone because I feel as if I could talk to him forever... and I haven't felt like this about someone in a really long time.

But just like Paris, France; he's not exactly here and I am not exactly there. The worst thing is he straight up told me that if things were different then... well things would be different. The problem is, this happened a while ago. Like a WHILE ago, and I had thought I had moved on.

I mean, it was awkward as hell at first, but I refused to let it affect what was going on, despite everything. I guess it would have helped if he had been an asshole instead of being... himself. But eventually, or so I had believed, I got over it. Hell, I even started seeing other people and yet here I am, trying to run away from someone I'd much rather be as close to as possible and in every possible way.

It's funny how certain people can rope you back in just as you're about to escape. Now I'm not saying that I'd prefer being trapped, oh hell no. It's just... in this case I can't be let go, even when I want to. I know for a fact that he isn't the one; I need someone more my style and someone who will fit into my life rather than become it, or worse even make me change my life to become theirs; but I feel he is one. And I, as I'm sure almost everyone else, don't like knowing that something I want is something I can't have.. let alone having it in front of my face. My rational mind keeps telling me that it is for the best but seriously... it sucks.

So to answer the question, is it better to want or be wanted? No... they both suck.

Communication: A Dying Art?

2006-06-25T18:07:00.000-04:00

I have to tell you something; but first I gotta figure out how...

I've been thinking about communication a lot lately... or moreso the lack of communication that seems to be happening. I know that people say, and these are really smart people so I guess I should listen to them, that communication is the cornerstone of any successful relationship, be it intimate, friendship, or colleague-ship, .. communication is key; except there are so many different forms of communication; verbal, written, body, spoken and unspoken, and lets not forget the telepathic conversations you can have with your girlfriends. And yet, with all the technologies and advances of the modern world, we can still manage to screw it all up. I mean, think about it; if you can't come up with a word to use you can google it; you can delete anything that doesn't sound correct (as I just did), check, double check and re-check to be sure that you say exactly what you want to, when you want to, and how you want to. So why is it that both men and women still claim lack of communication as the #1 downfall in marriages and relationships? I used to wonder if it was as simple as the different communication styles that men and women have... women like to talk and men like to do (no pun intended). But as the roles and expectations of men and women are blurred with every passing day, so do in a sense our communication styles.

I've had the pleasure, or should I say dis-pleasure seeing how that relationship ended, of dating a guy who was really into the whole "metro" thing. Don't get me wrong here; there are plenty of aspects about that kind of lifestyle that were purely beneficial for someone like me who was used to dating manly-jocks; he always looked good, dressed well without my help or insistence, took care of himself and was into communication, he enjoyed talking on the phone, having deeper conversations.. holding hands, cuddling and romantic dinners he cooked himself. You know, the "sensitive guy" we women always seem to want. At times it was like I was dating a chick, except not, as no matter how metro a guy gets he is still deep down a man which has its obvious benefits, or should I say necessities for an intimate relationship. He was still the main bug-killer, the one who'd reach for the stuff I needed off a tall shelf, the guy who'd install your shower-heads and fix your broken doors but still retained that sensitivity despite all these masculine activities.

The downside, or maybe up-side if you look at it another way, of dating a guy who's very much like a chick, is that you get to see first hand all the annoying tendencies and forms of communication we women tend to have or are stereotyped with when dating someone you really like; all the necroses that guys complain about; the neediness, the possessiveness, the insane bouts of jealousy, the hissy fits and crying to manipulation central... really ladies; the way we communicate sometimes is so NOT cool! I know that we don't mean to do it, and even when we do mean to do it because there are girls who do, we don't honestly understand the ramifications of our actions until, as the saying goes, it happens to us and the stiletto is on the other foot.

I used to refer to this as the "needy-chick syndrome", now known as the "needy-chick/needy-guy syndrome", which is kind of like domestication except for the fact that often one person takes this lifestyle choice a bit too far to the point where one persons' choice becomes the others obligation. It starts with the little things; one phone call a day becomes 2, becomes 3, becomes 4... a weekly sleepover on weekends becomes a nightly trek to one persons' apartment, and when you want to sleep by yourself in your bed he wants to come with you. A weekly lunch date during your 40s hours becomes an every day thing, even when you had breakfast with this person and will undoubtly have dinner with him and then go to bed with him. Nights out with your girl friends are met with resentment or "I'll come with you’s!" or "Meet me later" or even worse, met with nothing but silence... This NC/NG syndrome is a form of communication that I personally cannot STAND. It is communicating to your partner without actually communicating: you're telling them as supposed to discussing with them that hey, I don't just want you, I NEED you. At every possible moment of every possible day... and that is soo annoying. It is probably the worst possible form of communication because this kind of behaviour isn't conducive to compromise, as people tend to get defensive or worse, deny their actions and well, communication gets the kibosh and eventually so does the relationship.

Now of course, not every relationship ends like this, or at least that's what people keep telling me. But I can't help but be cynical or even a bit hesitant when it comes to my style of communication, and how well it meshes with the men I decide to date. I obviously could not communicate to "Philippe" how much his behaviour disturbed me, so how in the world am I supposed to communicate to whoever else comes along something just as important? I think the problem was that there was absolutely no communication between us; there was communication at me, but not so much with me and as soon as that started the relationship stopped... so I dumped the douche bag.

I think that in the end at the heart of any relationship lies communication; voluntary or involuntary. Whether it be spoken or unspoken, normal or bordering on the insane, male-or-female influenced, communication still makes or breaks a relationship... despite how good the sex is.

Domestication: Friend or Foe?

2006-06-22T15:05:00.000-04:00

Is it better to be an undomestic diva or a domestic door-mat?

I've been discussing this disturbing trend with one of my new co-workers, a 20 something full-time office chick/part time student whom I've be-friended. We're both on the look-out for new wing-girls, you know, the girl friends who are always up for a night out dancing, boy-hunting and just plain fun. Not to say that our current girlfriends aren't fun anymore: quite the contrary, when we DO see them they are a blast. But herein lies the rub; we hardly ever see them anymore and when we do, they seem to have permanently attached themselves to their boyfriends hips.

On one hand, who can blame them? Being attached to someone's hip has its obvious benefits. As one of my girlfriends often says in her quest for a significant other, "Coupled people do not go out clubbing; they stay in and fuck." And when they do emerge from the bedroom, they are so immersed with each other they may have well just stayed in there. Other perks included in domesticdom are semi-permanent dinner dates, movie dates, someone to stay in with when the weather gets bad, and someone to accompany you on all those boring mudane tasks us single and fabulous (!) girls must do alone. So, from the outside looking in, domestication doesn't sound so awful.

However, and there is always a however, freedom-loving Manolo lites, including yours truly, can and have fallen into the domesticdom-trap. Anyone who has been in a relatively serious long-term monogamous relationship can attest to this: after a while you start to act, think and believe as an entirely different person, and from the inside looking out, things can get a bit foggy.

Last summer I found myself in a semi-serious relationship with a guy, lets call him "Phillipe", and sure as hell I found myself domesticated. I would sleep at this guys place almost every night, even though my apartment was on the street where I worked and his was across a bridge and often required 2 buses to get where I was going, not to mention losing the 45 extra minutes of beauty sleep I so thoroughly enjoy. And if that wasn't enough, after spending the night and morning with him he would meet me for lunch when clearly I should have been socializing with my girl friends, or at the very least a co-worker whom I've now developed full blown crush-affair with... hey, a girl's gotta have her priorities! And even after spending the morning with him, having lunch with him and talking to him on the phone, "Philippe' still managed to convince me to either spend the night as his aparment again or crash at mine, although his preference was obviously his place, despite the geographic proximity of our work-places to my apartment. If my behaviour was any indication, my girl friends must have been driven crazy! "Philippe" had managed to go from being my summer boyfriend to being my summer. Only now do I realize just how much I missed out on after falling into what I call the domestic-trap.

Looking back on this as I enter my summer in singledom, I can see the ups and downs of domestication. Sure, domesticdom has its perks, but myself and anyone else who has been in a long-term monogamous relationship has to be careful not to become a "domestic doormat", women (and men) who freely give up their individual lives to become one with another. As a freedom-loving Manolo-lite, I thought myself immune to such trickery, but "Philippe" and countless other men I know have successfully tamed some of the wildest women I know, including myself. I am talking about girls who under normal circumstances would hit on bars and boys for drinks and dances who now drop similar plans for a movie night pour deux... in other words, sans moi. The worst part is, I often find myself losing touch with these 'domestic doormats' in hopes to salvage what little social life I have left.

Not to say that their social lives are completely void, oh no. Their calendars are always free for 'couples nights', implying that if I want to see them I'd best get myself a boyfriend or at least someone I am casually dating to tag along for the ride... I guess I am simply not a fan of needing a boyfriend to hang out with my girlfriends.

Now, I know it is not fair or correct to couple all taken-girls into that one awful category. On the contrary; I know some pretty fabulous halves, women I like to call "domestic darlings". These girls are in monogamous relationships and spend quality time with their boyfriends/lovers/significant others. However, they have also mastered the art of having a life outside of their relationship.

Some of my girl friends, the very lucky ones, have boyfriends/lovers/significant others who encourage these girls to keep their social lives and their girlfriends, and when they join us for a night out they are never overbearing or controlling; in fact they are quite fun. One particular girl friend, lets call her "Angelica" and her fiance, let's call him "Joe" have perfected the art of having a lover AND having a life. I would even go as far as to say, it is the type of domestication a Manolo-lite like me wouldn't mind having. But as I said, this summer I've found myself a happy resident of singledom, meaning I'm a bit cynical... I'm hopefully enough to keep looking for a relationship like that, but I'm smart enough to realize that "Angelica" and "Joe" are the exception to the rule.

So what's a single (and fabulous!) gal to do when she's stuck between the singledom haven and domesticdom wonderland? I am not about to give up the freedom and spontaneity of singledom for the pleasures and stability of domestication... I just hate the fact that so many of us have to chose between one or the other.

Brains versus Beauty...

2006-06-18T14:17:00.000-04:00

Since when did we have to choose?

I have been asking myself lately, among other things, if there really are women in this world whos sole purpose is to make us feel bad about ourselves? The only answer I have been able to come up with is "maybe", but recently I have been encountering women whos sole purpose in life is making me question mine.

As far as I am concerned, a defining characteristic of the modern Manolo-female is her intelligence. In fact, these days you are more likely to encounter a female on a university campus than a male and soon enough, most of us will be working for a modern Manolo-female instead of a male. On the outside she appears to have it all: an intelligent mind to match her sexy body and she remains what us twenty-something Manolo-lites are striving to be not only for ourselves but for men as well. I was under the impression that smart was sexy; but why then, given the choice of a smart, sexy Manolo-lite, do some men still prefer the pretty little airhead immortalized by the likes of Pamela Anderson and Jessica Simpson? It seems to me that although the modern man professes the desire for a competent, ambitious and driven woman, he continues to prefer the company of a scatterbrained, yet gorgeous female. I can't help but wonder why, when given the choice between sexy and smart and just sexy... why do men still go for just sexy?

I have a friend, let's call her "Daisy", who embodies the definition of the "Just Sexy" female. She is tall, skinny, blonde, beautiful, and has the habit of saying the most mindblowingly odd things you could possibly imagine. Although carefree and charismatic, her knowledge of current events, street smarts, common sense and educational topic of choice is not her forte. And yet, for one reason or another that I have yet to figure out, she manages to have four men, four really great men gravel at her feet and answer her every beck and call. So why is that?

According to askmen.com, modern men should raise their personal standards and expectations in their search for the perfect girlfriend. She should be smart, sexy, sweet, ambitious, self-reliant, independent and mature; the kind of woman you would find at a library, museam or cultural event but who is not adverse to the odd sporting event and a pitcher or two of beer. However, despite the aformentioned qualities deemed necessary in a female, these so called modern men still flock towards the young, fun and intellectually numb women they find at the bars, the clubs, the malls or wherever else they congregate in mass numbers. So why is that we, as Manolo-lites are told to be smart, sexy, sweet, ambitious, self-reliant, independent and mature when the hot, fun, scatterbrained girls are attracting and getting all the guys?

Now I am not saying that my friend is stupid. On the contrary, she is actually quite clever. She has everything a Manolo-lite wants without all of that hard work. And although this situation is quite frustrating, fear not my lovely Manolo-lites: there is a gold lining to this charade. The way I see it is, whatever man, modern or not, who would lower his expectations in a woman for the moment is doing just that: for the moment, which leaves us with the men who appreciate brains in a partner just as much as beauty. As annoying as it is to watch every available guy at the bar gravitate towards your pretty clueless girl friend, true Manolo-lites shouldn't waste our time with men who can't handle our minds as well as they can handle our bodies, nor should we settle for one or the other. The "Just Sexy" female gets them easily, but nothing worth having comes easy.

So, on behalf of all Manolo-lites, I would like to thank all the "Just Sexy" females. Next time you and your girl friends are out on the town and your "Just Sexy" friend is getting the most attention, remember this: think of her as your Darwinian card: by attracting and being naturally selected by the low-riding men who are looking for either a trophy or a good time but not necessarily a long time, allow the good, intellectually superior females to find the good, intellectually superior males who require a higher form of stimulation than a pretty face, a nice rack and a gullible yet trusting mind. They just make our search simpler by weeding out the population of men better suited to a "Just Sexy" female versus men better suited to a Manolo-lite. So yes, maybe there are women out there whos sole purpose in life is to make us question ourselves... but only for the moment.

No love...actually.

2006-06-08T19:33:00.000-04:00

When the love ends but the relationship unfortunately doesn't...

When it comes to relationships, a bit of give and take and the all-mighty compromise is necessary for its survival. Some relationships are meant to be and others start out great but eventually fizzle out and end for one reason or another. We've all heard of lingering emotions after an official breakup, but who has heard of a lingering relationship?

I was once in a relationship for approx 1 and a half months. It was long distance with someone whom we'll call "Ben". I had met "Ben" through a mutual friend. He seemed decent enough but as things changed I found myself unable to balance school, work, social and personal time with him being 200 clicks away. The latter half of month 2 was spent trying to break things off as I figured breaking this off early would spare us both the time, money and heartache that comes with a long distance relationship. Unfortunately for me "Ben" just didn't get it. When I finally managed to break things off "Ben" still didn't get it. Then came the calls and the emails. I reiterated my stance that no, we are not going to get back together despite his insistance that in 2 weeks I would come crawling back.

Well, 2 weeks passed and not only did I not come crawling back, I started seeing someone that I really liked. Of course "Ben" learned of this and you guessed it! He still didn't get it. Then came the note taped secretly to the back of a favourite cd he had kept hostage followed by a visit to my brother asking for a second chance with me.

At this point I had had enough. A 2 month relationship was being elongated against my will for over 7 months after the fact. If I said "no" the first time, what makes you think that I will say "yes" the millionth time? When a former significant other, be it a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife, for no matter how long you have been together tells you "I don't want to be with you" or "This is not going to work" it does NOT and I repeat does NOT mean "Try harder". It does not mean keep calling or emailing trying to convince your ex otherwise. That is not called love. That is called manipulation.

Now, this is something that everyone I know, including myself, is guilty of. We've all called or emailed an ex once or twice asking them for a second chance, but usually, normally, when the calls are not answered, the emails are sent back and the belongings are returned, you give up. You move on. You realize that no matter what you do or say this person is not going to change their mind. When you think about it, if you have to manipulate, trick or force someone to love you and to stay with you... then maybe its not right. Nobody likes having their free will messed with, especially concerning something so important as an intimate relationship. "Ben" refused to believe or listen to anyone but himself when it came to our dead relationship. Instead of accepting the facts, which were might I add right in front of his face, he chose to argue his way through and push his opinion upon myself, my friends and my family.

Now, maybe we all didn't learn the same things in kindergarden, but throwing a hissy fit will not get you what you want. If you even have to throw a hissy fit instead of maturely accepting your former significant others wishes, with time of course, then the question remains: is this ending a result of non-compatability or non-compliance? Is he or she not giving you what you need or what you want? Instead of trying to force someone into agreeing with what you feel is right, if you have to force someone to comply with what you feel is best then you know what? The relationship is already over. If one person is making all of the decisions without respect or consideration for the others feelings or opinions then you're not even in a relationship. No sense in trying to convince someone into remaining in something that is actually nothing.

The Nice Guy...

2006-06-01T20:02:00.000-04:00

Is there really hidden treasure buried underneath the guys you call "friends"?

I recently caught myself saying those words that every twenty-something girl says to her friends when faced with a surprisingly common problem. It is something I am sure every woman in her life has said to her friends, her family, or even her boyfriend to describe a "nice guy" in her life. Those words are "we're just friends". The problem is I found myself rejecting a great guy, a co-worker actually, simply because we are, in my opinion "just friends". Unfortunately I found out that I was wrong.

Twenty-something girls, at least us "Manolo lights", seem to be doing this all backwards. We are attracting the "nice guys", the guys who call you when they say they will, who talk to your face on a date instead of your chest, who buy you coffee or lunch without expecting a glorious make-out session afterwards that he can brag about to his buddies or anyone who will listen. They are cute, kind and oh so available. The kind of guys who will go shopping with you without complaining, who don't care if you answer the door in sweats, who see you for who you are and love you regardless. And in return, we label them as our "friends" and run to them when the assholes we actually date show their true colours. But for some reason we don't want them. They are the kind of guys we love to hang out with, but we don't hang out with them because we love them. No... We hang out with them because "we're just friends".Why do we do that? Why don't we date the nice guys?

The rationales I've heard over the years are as follows: "... Don't want to ruin our friendship" ... "It would be too weird..." "He is like a brother to me..." and so forth. It's as if twenty something girls and guys would rather have their hearts broken by the toxic players than date a "nice guy" or a "nice girl", yet claim to want exactly what the "nice guys/girls" are. Why are we looking for that special someone who is right in front of our faces? Why are we unwilling to take a chance on a "nice guy"?

They say that "nice guys finish last" and you know what, they do. "Nice guys" don't take as many chances with women, be they "Manolo-females" or "Manolo lights" as the toxic players and even when they do they're labeled as our "friends". They finish last because they put themselves last and in turn, we put them last too. As much as we want a "nice guy"... we don't. Or at least that is the message we are sending our "nice guys"; that if you want us, stop being nice. Then there really would be no nice guys left. But they don't stop. Real "nice guys" remain "nice guys", even when faced with rejection. Maybe one day, they think, we'll realize that although our "nice guy" is good as a friend, he's even better as a lover. That he may not be what we are looking for at the moment, but if given a chance he just might be?

My co-worker is the classic "nice guy". He has a successful career, his own place and fantastic ambitions. He is funny, kind and really sweet. I'd be hard pressed to describe him without calling him a "nice guy" because that is exactly what he is. However, I just can't get myself to like him as anything more than as a friend. Why, when faced with a perfectly wonderful guy whom my girl friends would date in a second, I can't because he has that "just friends" label and I end up doing nothing. I know that this particular "nice guy" would treat me like a princess, I just can't get over that "nice guy" hump.

Maybe "nice guys" are destined to always finish last. I wonder if I'll ever be able to say that my "nice guy" finished last because he makes sure I finish first.

My place or ... your parents?

2006-05-15T10:34:00.000-04:00

When I said I'd go home with you, I didn't mean literally.

At first I thought this was a blip, something so out of the ordinary that it managed to stick out in my mind. I had heard about one or two examples before but each individual had a perfectly good reason for being in this situation. Except I kept hearing more and more examples coming out of the woodwork, prompting me to stop and take notice. Another interesting thing I have noticed about the new breed of twenty-something men, that is they are more than happy to move and live at home after university.

Now I am not one to judge, but doesn't that seem a little off? I can understand a quick lay-over, a stop in between university and real life, but when the lay-over becomes an extended vacation what does the twenty-something female do? It's one thing to have male-friends who are living at home after university, but it's another thing to date a guy who is living at home after university.

I had been seeing this 24 year old with a masters degree from an accredited university in Canada. He had recently moved back home because he felt that getting an apartment before getting a job was counterproductive, and I agreed. At first I didn't think it would affect me as much, but after a few months it started to when it was quite apparent that he was not interested in moving out. Granted I do have to admit living at home has its obvious benefits, but so does living on your own. I mean, it is one thing when you are 17 and dating, when it's ok to bring your date or your girlfriend/boyfriend back to your parents house when they aren't home or if they are home if you are feeling risky to sneak around and make out. But it's another thing when you're 24. As a 21 year old girl, it didn't feel right. So why does it feel right to a 24 year old guy?

I was recently speaking to a realtor who mentioned to me that more and more young, single twenty-something girls are buying their own place, sometimes with the help of their parents and sometimes as 'just me'. She has her degree, like the modern man, except she seems more interested in pursing her independent adult life by continuing to live on her own. It's as if the twenty-something girl is taking on the role formerly dominated by guys post-university; buying a house, a car, neither of which are or were her parents. Twenty-something guys, however, are taking on the role formerly dominated by girls post-university; being at home and relying on his parents before leaving when he is ready... Or when he is kicked out.

I think the problem lies with the fact that what men are looking for and what women are looking for has changed. The twenty-something female is looking for a partner, an equal. She isn't waiting for a man to enter her life for it to begin, so someone who is willing to fit into her already-established life. The twenty-something man, so it seems, is looking for his mother or at least someone kind of like his mother which explains why he is so content, even happy with moving back home at 23, 24, 25... And leaving... Well, when will he leave?

Modern Dating: Progression or Regression?

2006-05-07T23:58:00.000-04:00

Modern Dating: Progression or Regression?

For a twenty-something girl, modern dating can be tricky. The rules have changed, the roles have shifted, and expectations have been altered to a point of absolute confusion. Where once the definition of dating was clear and precise now it is .. Well it's just shades of grey. The shift came along with the evolution of what some writers call the "Manolo Blahnik female". These women are sexy, sexual, powerful and confusing as hell to men and women alike. To women, she is what we're expected to be, our goal even: ambitious, self-reliant, independent, sexually confident and free and most importantly, aggressive with our careers, with our futures and with our men. She is the hunter instead of the hunted; the chase instead of the catch. Trust me, you see these women everywhere. She's the one at the bar in the stiletto heels, the lowcut shirt, the equally low riding jeans checking you out from across the room. If you're lucky she'll introduce herself, buy you a drink, take you home and maybe give you her number. To men... she is the answer to their prayers. She does all the work, puts in all the effort, and only expects him to play along and enjoy the ride.

But what about those of us who aren't "Manolo females"?

I was recently dating this one guy, we'll call him "Ken", and the most effort I got out of him were phone calls that eventually degenerated to sporadic text messages and a personal visit but only in private. I had finally convinced him to ask me for a proper date, however sometime during the week "Ken" fell sick but didn't find it necessary to inform me of this. I ended up inviting him for drinks at a local martini bar that was maybe eight blocks away from my apartment, but even that was too much to ask of the modern male. It's not that "Ken" as a modern male is scared so much as "Ken" and all other modern males are used to getting what they want and when they don't they put up a wall instead of putting up a bit of effort.

Now I am not saying that the "Manolo female" would not have been upset had she found herself in this situation. It does beg the question, by becoming the "Manolo female", did modern women give up the right to be treated like a lady? Have we gained so much power in the business and social world that we no longer expect a little common courtesy from the opposite sex?

The "Manolo female" is perpetually on top... in education, in fitness, in career, in sex... The "Manolo female" is doing all the work now and she doesn't even realize it. They are chasing men, paying their own way, and it seems as if modern men are simply laying back and enjoying the ride. And who can blame them? We have allowed men to relax and forget that the amount of effort, not the amount in his bank account, is what's appreciated. When everything is coming to the modern man, why would he feel the need to put in effort where none is required to get what he wants? So when faced with a situation with a woman who requires a bit of effort, the modern man doesn't know what to do. Scratch that. The modern man knows what to do; he simply feels that he doesn't have to because soon enough he'll meet another "Manolo female" who will put in all the effort for him and give him what he wants without him ever having to lift a finger. What women want has changed over the years along with the methods of getting what we want. But not men. Men still want what they've wanted before, and the "Manolo female" has made it easier on him.

So what about the rest of us? The so called "Manolo-lights" who, although independent, empowered, confident and sexy, are looking for men who will treat us like a lady? When I can't even get a modern man to drive the extra eight blocks to meet me for a drink I have to ask myself, has dating as we knew it gone the way of the dodo?