If the milk is free...

Okay, so I'm beginning to think there may be something to this "who will buy the cow if you can get the milk for free" thing. I hate to say it, and it's honestly a bit backward thinking, but I can't seem to argue with the irritating evidence I'm facing.

Once a man gets you in bed, he simply stops trying.

Oh sure, he may put in token effort, but the real wooing ends when the sex begins.

Take for example my current situation. I met this guy online. He seemed clever, funny, maybe cute, and I decided to take a chance and agree to a date. Spontaneously we decided to grab a couple of pints one evening. When I arrived and finally located him I was a little disappointed. He was cute in a goofy sort of way, but I wouldn't have picked him out of a lineup. Still, I settled in for what turned out to be a surprisingly enjoyable night. Three pints, a plate of wings and some good stories later, we parted ways with a hug and I expected that would be that.

But it wasn't.

He contacted me again, expressing interest in a second date. I wasn't sure I was into it, but he started a clever, funny, and ballsy text and email campaign which piqued my interest. So after a few aborted attempts we managed to arrange a second date... more than a month after our first meeting.

Those of you who've read past posts may know that I'm a veteran of long distance relationships. I often consider written contact foreplay. When you know it's going to be weeks or months between physical interactions, you have to make the most of it. So our back and forth over the intervening weeks had seemed at times to be almost small dates in and of themselves. I say this by way of explaining what happened next.

Our date was lovely. He took me to a hip local eatery and spared no expense. The bottle of wine, the plates of charcuterie, the steak (if texting is foreplay, steak is an aphrodisiac). And he had brought me back a gift of maple candy from a recent trip. We had more great, easy conversation, some flirtation, an altogether enjoyable date.

As we walked along the street after, his arm around me to block the bitter wind, he asked if I'd like to go elsewhere for a drink... or perhaps for a scotch at his place.

Forward.

Ballsy.

Cocky even.

And for some reason, I agreed to the nightcap at his place.

Well, now we're all grown ups here, so we all know that a nightcap is just an excuse to get private and take your best shot at getting physical. Even I know that. And honestly, I was okay with it...

And I enjoyed myself.

But maybe I should have held back.

Because despite the fact that there was almost no awkwardness the next day (a minor miracle wouldn't you agree?), and the fact the the text/email contact has continued unabated, it has been two weeks since we've seen each other.

I know that busy schedules and deadlines and excuses, excuses can make it difficult to meet up. It did take a full month to arrange a second date. But I'm feeling like I'm in a long distance relationship with someone in my own neighbourhood!

And I'm wondering if he hadn't already gotten the "milk", would he be trying harder to see the cow again?

Chicksand

Today, through the miracle of Internet t.v. and half a bottle of wine, I have discovered a new phenomenon.

Chicksand.

(shout out to "Happy Endings")

Let me break it down for you. It's like quicksand, only with a girl. (Or I suppose a guy, although that would be dudes and and it doesn't have quite the same ring.) This is when you find yourself in a situation where you are being sucked into a relationship when what you were after was just a fling. Now, arguably, this can be good or bad, but let's be honest... we've all been there. She was hot, but kinda crazy... He was hung but "shut up and kiss me" stupid. Or maybe they're great, but just not for you.

Yet somehow, there you are... stuck in chicksand. You're making and responding to phone calls you don't want to be having... going on brunch dates... meeting family. They've named a pet after you. You think to yourself "I'll just have 'the talk' with them, that will clear it up". But then their pet dies (the one they named for you) or they get fired, or hit by a truck (not the big kind, a small one... maybe a broken leg).

Or, horror of horrors, they tell you they're in love.

My personal "chicksand" was a retread boyfriend (you can't go back, don't even try... but we'll touch on that in another post). You know the one. You had a longish relationship... a year or so... split up for very good reasons. Then one night you find yourselves under the influence at a gathering. The group thins out, you're tired, you curl up in the nearest available bed and hope for the best. Then you realize your mistake. Yep, you're in your ex's bed. And suddenly so is he. But hey, you're both a little tipsy and no one's getting hurt.

Until the next morning.

When he professes his undying love.

And cooks you breakfast.

And all you can think is "Dear God. I promise to be good forever if you just smote me with lightning here and now!"

No such luck.

Chicksand.

Personally it took a year and some very slick negotiating skills to get out of this one, but then I've always had horrible timing and bad taste in men.

All I'm saying is that 'the talk' early in a situation can go a long way to mitigating chicksand scenarios. We're all adults, sometimes sex just happens (and frankly by the time you hit 30 you should be realistic about that). Even if some one's great, they don't have to be the next ONE, or even the next relationship.

But hey, maybe they are.

And sometimes it's okay to get stuck in chicksand. Just make sure that's really where you both want to be.

Never eat salad on a date.

I never eat salad on a date. Why? It's bad. First off, eating a salad on a date makes the guy think you're concerned about your weight. Maybe you are, maybe you just like greens... doesn't matter. What he sees is a girl who is so insecure she won't eat anything but rabbit food. The other reason salad is bad? Salad is dangerous. It's slick vegetables covered in oily sauce. Have you ever eaten a salad without flicking some of the dressing on your face, your shirt, your date?

Salad is humiliation waiting to happen.

That's not to say pretty much any food isn't a potential mine field of sauce and stains. But getting chicken wing sauce on your face is, well, kinda hot. Seriously, I'm a girl, and even I can see how licking sauce from your fingers while laughing at his jokes will give any guy masturbatory material for days. If he's feeling bold or romantic, he can reach over and wipe that smudge off the side of your mouth, coming just this close to touching your lips in public.

Incredibly erotic, no?

But salad is all forks and propriety. The dressing gets on your face and it's an accident, not a natural side effect of enjoying your food. It's an embarrassment that any man will go to great lengths to ignore. It's just no fun.

So stick with the wings, and ditch the greens when you're out with your latest guy. But if you think things might move past the polite kiss goodnight, do yourself a favour and skip the suicide sauce. I have it on good authority that the chilli can linger, and you don't want that anywhere near any sensitive areas!

Question and Answer

I'm not good with bad news. I'm so not good with it, in fact, that I've been known to not want any news, even if it could be good... wonderful even... news, because it might be bad. Or just not the news I want to hear. It's an offshoot of the self destructive behaviour that leads me to not apply for contracts fearing I'll be told no, rather than taking a chance because I might be told yes.

Sometimes I over come it... otherwise I wouldn't have great jobs that take me to Caribbean islands... but sometimes, that demon is still there. It tells me not to bother. Tells me, no, not worth the risk. Rejection hurts, so don't even put yourself out there.

And I wonder when I became so frightened of failure, of rejection, of pain.

I ran an entire three year relationship on the premise that if I didn't ask if he loved me, he couldn't tell me he didn't, and therefore he couldn't hurt me. It was flawed logic at best, and I often find myself wishing I had asked for the bad news earlier. Earlier warned, earlier healed.

It's like not going to the doctor because you're afraid they might tell you there's something wrong. But what if you hadn't waited so long to follow up and whatever is so wrong now could have been treated or even cured if you'd just faced up to it earlier? A broken heart isn't cancer, but if you can screen for something while it will hurt, but not kill you, shouldn't you do it?

And often all it takes is a couple bold questions and really listening to the answers.

Of course it's frightening to put yourself out there. It's like standing on a ledge, hanging your foot over, leaning forward, and trusting that there's an invisible bridge that will catch you. You can't see the bridge, you have no way of knowing it's there, and it might not be. You could free fall in to space. You could land, face first, in your own humiliation... sharp, sticky, painful humiliation. Or the bridge could be there. You could take one scary step and find the air solid beneath your feet. It's no guarantee the bridge won't disappear at the next step, or the next one, or half way to the other side. But the bridge just might stay, solid and strong and supportive, all the way through your journey.

You have to trust that the bridge is there.

And you have to trust that if it isn't, the fall won't be that bad. You'll likely get a little bruised, maybe get some embarrassing slime on you, but you'll survive. The news can't be that bad, after all.

All I have to do is remember that, and have the bravery to ask a simple question. And listen carefully to the answer.

Home... confession of a romantic

Welcome to the first youtube assited gluttonforpunishment blog. Please listen to the below link... once, twice, fifteen times... then come back and read on.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb9jY8yAxgs&feature=related

(crediting Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros here...)

"Home... home is where ever I'm with you."

I've been over this concept before. Sometimes I feel a fool for it, but I can't let it go. It's got to do with the somewhat cliche'd idea of "home is where the heart is". I think it's true.

The ex used to talk about home... about me going home... wondering why I wasn't attached to the place I lived. I tried to tell him... home is a flexible thing to me. Home is where my heart craves to be. No this isn't always tied to a man. Sometimes, when I'm over worked, or overwhelmed Home is where my family is, mom, and the annoying sisters and the universality of family. When I'm there for a few days, and they start driving me nuts, Home is the sanctity of my own apartment in the city, where their crazy can't touch me.

And sometime, Home is the place where my love lies. A city, a thought, an island, a moment. Home is the crook of an arm, the light across my face as I press next to that warm body, the moment you realize a connection, the light in his eyes when you share a joke. Home.

And I, once again, am Homeless.

I've often been accused of such travesties as being a "bad traveller" or a "social animal" or even on rare occasions a "homebody". Can you imagine the trama, if these monikers hold true, of being Homeless? Sure, I've got an apartment that is... mine... if not perfect. I have four walls and a set of keys, a parking spot, a mailbox, and a place for all my junk. But do I have a home?

Ten months. Ten months I have lived in this... house. And yet there is nothing on the walls, save paint. Not a picture, not a shelf, not a mirror. I am yet a transient. I've honestly been trying to figure out why I can't seem to ever unpack, hang pictures, and settle in.

Could it be, I have not found my Home?

I am fluid but solid, I will fit myself to my place. But where is my place? Whom? When will I find my Home?

January Blahs

As the fluffy snowflakes descended upon us today, I felt the claustrophobia closing in. It's January in Canada, and mother nature has locked us in once again. I found it strange that, although I was theoretically willing to go out in my Sorels and furry flappy hat to play in the drifts of white, I was completely unwilling to do it alone. It's moments like those that make you think... "ah, now that would be fun with a strapping young man and a cup of hot chocolate". Alas, I stayed inside trying to ignore the squirrels in my walls, doing my taxes, and marathoning yet another t.v. series.

Now I'm aware that locking myself in my house is counter productive to meeting new and interesting people. The thing is that "interesting" has become my code word for undesirable these days. Even the internet won't throw me anything even remotely worth considering. January is bringing out the weird, the lost, the desperate. My online profiles are garnering messages from truly deluded and occasionally agressive and stubborn people. And old guys... from other cities... seriously. It's like the snow has frozen their logic centres and they're just randomly flinging themselves at profiles hoping some girl out there will be driven stir crazy by winter cabin fever and agree to a date, please god any date, just to get out of the house.

In the past, my tactics have been to hide and ride it out.

Not this year.

Okay, yeah, I've spent seven of the last eight days with my backside magnetically attracted to the couch... but I'm vowing a change. I will go out of the house every day. Maybe on an errand, just a walk, or even to the newly joined gym. (Yes this year I became a cliche and joined a gym in January... it was a really good deal!) Now I don't have any illusions that this methodology will present me with the perfect man. If anything it will prove that January is for hibernation and that only weirdos actually venture outside for anything but work. But the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. So in the spirit of not proving my own insanity, I am willing to try January from a new perspective. I will attempt to be a positive if not entirely productive member of society for the month of January. No more moping, hiding from the weather. Long Johns were invented for a reason... that reason is Canadian winters... and I will embrace the layers, the puffy coat, the furry mittens.

And I will drink warm drinks with Bailey's in when I return to the welcoming embrace of my sofa.

Wish me luck

Geographically Challenged

Hello again, and my apologies for my prolonged absence. Life does have a way of, well, getting in the way doesn't it?

So I'm finding myself once again up against my proclivity for "emotionally distant and geographically challenged" men. I don't know what it is, but the further a man lives from me the more interested in them I am. I believe I've already mentioned my New York Ex... well now I can add my London Infatuation.

While in the Caribbean on a very challenging co-production with a UK company, I found myself surrounded by Brits. Funny (and attractive) accents surrounded me on all sides, but I took it in stride, befriended the Brits, even started adopting their slang. (Although it sounds ridiculous to say "sodding" in a Canadian accent) In turn, I found I was adopted, made part of the family so to speak. I was so impressed by the talent and work ethic of the British crew, I was honoured to be an honourary member. We would all return from long shoot days to our luxury resort, eat gourmet food together, and drink rum punches until we could barely stand. It was heaven.

And then one night, it happened. I was minding my own business, drinking my face off in good company, when someone thought it would be funny to mock propose to me! Oh well, if that wasn't unsettling enough, one of my British pals decided he'd have none of it, and scooped me onto his lap, effectively staking his claim to my time and affection, assuming I would give it. Lucky for him, I find talent exceptionally sexy and I was amenable to the situation. Seven lovely nights spooning in a 5 star bed ensued, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

But then reality crashed on my head. The shoot ended, and we returned to our respective cities. Myself to Toronto, Him to London. Now the rational part of me understands this was a week of comfort in a strange land... two people thrown together who found common ground and shared interests and a certain amount of solace from a demanding job by litterally falling asleep in each other's arms. But the daydreamer in me... now she's dangerous.

She likes the exoticism. She likes the idea of pulling up stakes and running of to a new life, a new world. She likes the fairy tale. She likes it when the movies lie to her and tell her that these sorts of things always work out. Despite the fact that's she's quite painfully been proven wrong in the past.

So how do I deal with the daydreamer? How do I set her right? How do I tell her to let go of the fantasy and move on, find a nice local boy, have a real life right here, right now? I don't, I suppose... I let her dream, I indulge her star eyed optimism for a few weeks... and I keep her from sending ridiculous emails (honestly it's how the last one got started... I have no idea of the power of my own prose!) and I slowly let her let go... move on... find a nice local boy and build ridiculous fantasies around him... there was that cute bar owner a couple months back, maybe I can renew her interest in him?