Tag Archives: men

Dating Options 101: Whatchagot

I had too much wine on Saturday night, wrote this. Didn’t publish it for fear I might’ve said too much. In vino veritas and all. So here’s the version you see. :)

I’m being antisocial. Again. I’m at that point where people are draining me, so I know I need my time to myself.

Some guy’s aggressively pursuing me. I could be shagging this weekend, not lounging around in ugly clothes. The thought fills me with a little doubt as I look down at my yoga pants and my shitty concert t-shirt. God knows it’s been long enough. If landscapes were sex-life allusions, then mine would be the Sahara in a drought. I’m okay with this, though. Except, you know, at those moments when — SCHWING — I’m so not. Fortunately, self-inducing oblivion helps avoid those moments.

I’ve been rebuffing said attempts. Pretty sure he’s not really my type. It’d be just sex. Incredibly-hot-guy-with-no-mental-connection sex. If things were less complicated, maybe. Like I say: A dry season in the Sahara. The problem with hormones is, once you turn ’em on, it’s like the switch gets broke. They get this mind of their own. I’d prefer not to fuck my mode and just avoid sex entirely unless it’s for the “oh, YOU might be a sidedish of WOW” kinda manly potential right now. Continue reading

And Then It Was Monday

Hi, kids. We haven’t had a catch-up chat for a while, have we?

I’d love to have something brilliant to write for you today. Really. I got nothing. So you can leave now if it’s profundity you seek. For you, good lasses and sirs, I offer a serving of vapidity.

See, I spent my whole weekend huffing Lysol, questing to kill bugs, and doing one of the deepest apartment cleans ever (but there’s still more work to do — the storage unit, cleaning the oven… does it ever end?). Mental faculties? Not so much.

I do, however, have a faint eau de sterilized green apple Lysol-ly scent wafting off me this morning. I’m fresh AND germ-free! And I think I still hear braincells popping off to their chemically-induced deaths in the back of my cerebellum. “No, Lenny! Don’t jump! The air’s clearing, really!”

Curse you, bugs, for the damage thou hath wrought upon me!

And despite wanting to turtle naked and lazily under my blankie as the warm sun beats down on me in bed as the should-be ease of this day washes over me, the reality is, I’m pretty close to hopping on my bike to suffer another 45 minutes of labour as I moan and groan my way up the steep-ass hills of this town on my way in to what will finally be some PAID work. For seven hours. Followed by more cycling.

Today could well be the last hot day of the year. Hopefully not. But it’d be wrong to let it pass by without sucking the marrow from it and enjoying every last bead of sweat I can muster out of this late-season gift .

My “kicking ass and taking names” summer became derailed after July 17th, when I came down with bad bronchitis that kept me from cardio for nearly a month. I had one valiant week then where I cycled four times in mid-August, but then I got insomnia, where I had 40 hours sleep in about 15 nights, followed by a week at work with overtime. Needless to say, I haven’t found my rhythm in weeks.

I did get a good cycling week in last week but had aimed for four days of it, but saw Mr. Cockroach on Thursday night and resolved to do the Molly Maid/Rambo thing this weekend instead. Again, derailed. Three’s good, though, and I can make this week a second in a row.

It’s Monday now, a whole new week, and no matter how much it kills me, it’s on, baby. Music’s recharging, cycle bag’s packed, sun’s stoking the fire. It’s a great day for it.

I found myself thinking a lot about when I did a cleaning frenzy like this in March, though, when I totally gutted and cleaned my place, and resolved to spend the next six months being very active. I did a pretty good job of it — the cleaning and the six months. So I found myself perceiving my weekend as a setting of the stage upon which the next six months of life will unfold.

It’s a pretty great way to get perspective on blowing away one of the nicest sunny September weekends I ever recall in Vancouver.

Vancouver, for those who don’t know, vacillates between a sunshiney Eden and the downpours of the most urban rainforest in the world. Surrounded by impressive mountains yielding insane snowboarding within 10 minutes of downtown, the local geography hems in any rainclouds — the weather amassed from the long journey over the Pacific, usually up from Hawaii, falls down on this often-soggy urban jewel before the clouds weaken and leave the for the Prairies, which will be left arid, on their travels eastward. “September” is often something not to be banked upon in this town — make sure your travel agent knows. Summer ostensibly ends August 25th because the rain can come early and hard, and stay for months. If you think that’s writerly hyperbole, then go look up the definition of “temperate rainforest”, by which should be a picture of southwest British Columbia.

Today? Sunny and 24/80 degrees. Tomorrow, a little cooler. By Thursday, rain. Will sun return? A Vancouverite never knows. Hope, however, we collectively practice.

So, today I ride. Carpe diem.

I’m consciously getting my game back on over the next couple weeks. My 35th birthday’s on the 29th. You should donate a birthday gift to my PayPal account so I can buy some wine and panties. Priorities being what they are and all. :)

Love your blogger! Feed her! Get her drunk! One reader claims to be sending me BDSM toys. I say, bring it on!

I do digress! Anyhow. Dating: I actually have more men in the wings these days, about four or five, and with this great late September weather, I’m not interested in dating at all. I want to get my mojo back, feel like I’m back on my path to fitness. But the question is, can I string ’em along? Should I? Dare I? Usually doesn’t work well. But perhaps I’m not the only one not wanting to squander these last days of summer.

It’s a shame I’ve forsaken such a blissful 48 hours in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But I feel like this place I’m in this morning, this verge I’m on with what seems to be another exciting chapter of life about to unfold, is a place I’d have gladly paid money to get to. Instead, admission was a fevered weekend of cleaning. C’est la vie.

And if you’re wondering where I’m at with weight? No clue. I don’t care. Once I’m back on path, I’ll check it out. I don’t feel like I’ve gained or lost. I think I’m in limbo. Considering all the chorizo and goat’s cheese I enjoyed on the weekend, “limbo” has been working for me. :)

Happy Monday, y’all. Why don’t you, too, try to suck the marrow out of your day in some way? Take five to do something you deserve. Life’s too fucking short. Even on Mondays.

PS: Unfortunately, people really are THIS stupid.

And then there was None

Well, I’m single now. We pulled the Band-aid off and decided things just weren’t working.

As far as break-ups go, this was the best I’ve probably ever had.

It’ll be hard for me to be friends, I suspect, since I’m not really the one who quit the relationship. He was trying really hard to keep his shit together after he shattered his leg in March, but losing all your mobility and being introduced into a life where you have near-constant pain and chronic exhaustion tends to take a lot out of you emotionally.

Having been injured far too often last decade, I know this. I relate all too well. That, in many ways, made the past two months even harder. I wanted to be angry at him for pulling back, I wanted to resent him. I just couldn’t. I understand. It’s why I was so broken-hearted when I learned that morning that he’d broken his leg so severely. I knew the guy I was falling for was probably going to disappear for a long time. I’m just surprised it took a couple months to happen.

The relationship started wonderfully. It was so promising, full of future. Then, literally a bad break. Why fate intervenes as it does, I’ll never know. It just does. I can’t sit around in sadness and loss about this, because it is what it is: Dumb fuckin’ luck.

I don’t typically stay friends with exes. I’m making an exception. I also don’t tend to get back involved with exes, but in this case, I’m keeping a very open mind. On paper, we were obvious. Meant to be together. Even after we decided to break up, we were on the phone for an hour, just chatting.

Bad injuries can break a bit of your soul. Life becomes struggle. Too many people have never experienced the hardness brought on by a lack of freedom, lack of mobility, and constant pain. It really robs you of something, and it can really fuck with your psyche, too. This time, it did.

But, hey. He knows I care. I know he cares. We just can’t be what we want to be, and I can’t wait any longer. He doesn’t want to hurt me any more than this already has. It’s a respect thing.

Sometimes, moving on’s the best thing you can do. But I’m glad we’re keeping an open mind. Finding a real, passionate connection’s a rare thing in this shallow fucking world, and writing something like this off because fate played a hand, well, I’m too much of a romantic to just do that. Deciding to move on has been a long time coming.

Part of why I haven’t been writing as well as I’d like to have been doing is because I’ve been biting my tongue. So much of this has troubled me so deeply for so long that I’ve just felt unable to share it, because I knew he was having such a hard time already, and I didn’t want to bring any more negativity to the plate, or make it harder for him. In so doing, I took more bruising than I maybe should’ve done.

But now it’s done. Now the future’s decided, a path of action has been declared.

I was at a thingie last night and had a couple of those “moments” where you can tell the guy’s really digging you, you know? It was strange, because I felt like I was cheating on The Guy even though I’d sort of decided to end it today already. Maybe there’ll be a re-learning curve on this. He says he won’t be looking for relationships in the hiatus, but that I’m entitled to do anything I want, given that I wasn’t the one who pulled up anchor a couple months back. It’s nice to have that understanding expressed.

Having this resolved comes at a good time. There’s a potential that I’m going to spend some money I shouldn’t spend, and get the fuck out of dodge for a weekend. I’ve found out that there’s a scooter rally in Wine Country this coming weekend, and for a hundred or so bucks, I can have a great three days of fun with people who are positive, zany, intelligent, daring, and adventurous. Exactly the qualities I’m looking for in new people.

Am I going to sit around and be celibate as I hope that maybe I’ll get back together with this guy I really like? Absolutely not. I’m not going to sleep around, but I’ll see if some connection can be found somewhere. I have to presume things may never re-ignite, tragically, but I’m also hoping that being back on the market will remind me of what I might’ve had, and keep that desire awake a little.

Man, got to tell you, some days I really miss being six years old. It was all so simple, wasn’t it? Is it any wonder everyone gets felled with an early-20s depression as they realize everything’s just gotten infinitely more challenging?

Pity I have nothing to drink, but that’s probably a good thing. I do, however, have a roach I can smoke. I feel a little toying with dope coming on in my new future. A little bender can’t really hurt.

How Much Trouble’s Too Much?

Oy vey. Here’s a doozy. The short of this reader’s question is:

“How much trouble is one guy worth?”

The long of the question is, she’s your typical non-religious “Christian” whose religious extent is the putting up of a Christmas tree. It doesn’t matter much to her at all. She’s educated, though, and knows a little about world faiths and is a polisci kinda gal. She’s hip.

And she’s fallen for a Jew. This isn’t your standard-edition Jew, either, who likes bagels and matzoh balls. He’s a lived-in-Jerusalem, goes-to-temple-on-Sabbaths, I-can’t-marry-a-Gentile kind of Jew.

SPLAT. Hear that? That’s the sound of our non-religious girl falling painfully for this Yiddish Loverman.

So let’s get back to her question. See, she’s thinking she could convert to Judaism. As a religion, she thinks it’s beautiful. (As do I.) It’s their politics that bother her. An independent Israel? Never shoulda happened. (I agree. Yeah, here’s an idea: Let’s take a bunch of Westerners who have always misunderstood the “Islamic infidels” and have THEM divvy up the land. Fuckin’ brilliant. Oh, hey, just add water! Instant ongoing war! SMART-like. “Paradise Now” is a movie that’ll make you think twice about this whole Israel issue. In every situation there are two sides. Pity we only hear one.)

So, can she swallow her politics, digest a new relationship, and keep this man she’s head-over-heels for? Sure she can. But should she?

Like she says, How much trouble is one guy worth?

Let’s visit my friends at Websters for that one, okay?

trouble
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): trou`bled; trou`bling /’trou-b(le-)li[ng]/
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French trubler, from Vulgar Latin *turbulare, from *turbulus agitated, alteration of Latin turbulentus — more at TURBULENT
transitive verb
1 a : to agitate mentally or spiritually : WORRY, DISTURB; b (1) archaic : MISTREAT, OPPRESS (2) : to produce physical disorder in : AFFLICT; c : to put to exertion or inconvenience eg: I’m sorry to trouble you

2 : to put into confused motion eg: the wind troubled the sea
intransitive verb
1 : to become mentally agitated : WORRY eg: refused to trouble over trifles
2 : to make an effort : be at pains eg: did not trouble to come

Oh, hey, trouble. That sounds like a bitch. Something like adversity, then, is it? Or (gasp) grief? How do you measure trouble? Does it come with a specially-marked cup? Is it metric or imperial? Is it the same in any language?

Trouble is not fun. This we know. It’s filled with challenges, adversity, and more. That’s not the question. We know what trouble is. What none of us wants to admit is, it’s a standard add-on feature in each of our lives. Okay, so the question is, how much trouble is too much?

Depends on the trouble, then, I’d say. And the guy.

What’s the “trouble?”

Well, here it’s accepting a religion you need to buy into as an adult, with all those lifelong skepticisms and questions and moments of doubt. You need to put aside your logician’s mind and swallow a bunch of beliefs for the man you love. Not that hard to do, but it might be difficult to make your peace with down the line. Does it involve compromising who you are?

If not, great. If so, then proceed with caution.

Two, it’s ignoring your strong politics about something you feel is being unfairly portrayed in the media and misunderstood by the common man. Can you do that? Hell, I do that every time I go to my dad’s house. Not too hard. Politics aren’t a conversation one should ever enter into lightly. I generally try to avoid discussions about politics. Everyone’s a pundit, man.

Three, it’s the guy. Does he treat you with respect? Is he honest with you? Is he a shoulder for you when you need one? Does he know how to make you smile? Can you trust him? Do you want to wake up by his side? Can you see a future with him? Is he the first person you want to share good news with? Sounds like a catch.

If he treats you like shit or lies to you or makes you cry and not smile, well, then your answer’s pretty simple: Worth no trouble. Ever. At all.

I’ll go through a lot of grief for a good man. If he’s having troubles, and things are challenging, or things need to be overcome, I’ll try my hardest to ride them out. Good people are hard to find. Good lovers are even harder. I’ve been through hurts, I’ve had my heart broken, and I’ll still do everything I can to make sure a relationship’s not being thrown away for insignificant reasons… like my being too weak to stick out a difficult time. Sometimes it gets real fucking hard, too, having that patience, but I find having regrets a harder load to bear down the road.

We live in a society where everything is instant, and everything is easy.

Need to go to France? That’s an eight-hour plane trip! See you for wine and dessert this evening! Craving a some supper? Two minutes and twenty seconds on high heat in your microwave. Oh, don’t wash your dishes, just throw them out! Here’s new Royal Chinette! You’ll save three minutes of your precious life!

We don’t like adversity. We do fucking speed-dating, for god’s sake, as if 2 minutes is all you need to find the love of your life. We don’t want to go through challenges. We don’t want to take the hard road. When it comes to love and relationships, it’s too easy to walk away and not be there for someone.

The reader asked me about my relationship and said she assumed things have worked out and I’ve decided to stay private about things. Guess what? There’s still some things we’re working on together. Know why? We’re two people on PLANET EARTH, and we don’t live in a fairy tale. Adversities happen. Good relationships can overcome them. And yes, I’m being more private about things. I’m preferring to keep a lid on it these days, but at least the balls are in the air for the moment.

I think girlie, if she’s really in it for this man, needs to decide if she can live with the faith and can handle stifling her politics. I think the price we pay for regrets is too high, and I’d say take a chance and follow your heart.

But I’m a romantic pragmatist, and I’m constantly in conflict with myself. Kinda like the Middle East, I guess.

Sex Sells Insecurity

So there’s this new show and I’ve seen all of 60 seconds of it, but I have some taped and will be weighing in with an opinion. It’s ABC’s How To Get The Guy. Great, just what we need. Yet another show that teaches women how to pander to the men around them in the hopes that maybe, JUST MAYBE one of them will see her for the star she truly is, and then they’ll just let’er shine, baby.

For fuck’s sake, let’s just once have guys feeling like the desperate morons that need to pander to us, okay? Let’s stop having this whole “oh, woe is me!” and “be a bettah babe” mentality that chicks seem to suffer from, all right? There’s NOTHING wrong with you. Love’s a bitch and it’s better that it fails more than it succeeds, because then you GET it when you GOT it. Get it?

Men are great when they KNOW what they want. The rest of the time, they’re loveable fucking pains in the asses, and doing all you can to up your charm quotient and flirt like the dickens is probably gonna do sweet fuck all to knock some sense in his head, which is the part that really needs to transpire.

But since the media knows there’s only limited appeal to a reality show that has a bunch of Manhattan women lined up in the street with those giant plastic sledgehammers as they wait for the opportunity up and bell-ring the dude of their dreams with said sledgehammer, we just keep getting the same old crap spoon-fed to us in a new manner. How to snag a man. How to get laid, get happy, get a minivan, and get the fuck on. How to ignore the fact that it’s really the rest of your life leaving you feeling like you’ve got a gaping hole in your soul as you chase down a guy who’s ultimately probably gonna be a bad fix who’ll last you less than any classic seven-year itch.

God forbid we ever stop trying to solve our giant emptinesses with people around us, or that we stop blaming our failings on the people we’re in relationships with, because then what in the hell would the Hollywood types ever do with all those television scheduling hours that need to be filled with, gasp, content?

Besides, new evidence shows that the notion of “sexual chemistry” tends to be something schemed up by men within the first five minutes of meeting a woman, whether it’s there or not. How in the HELL is watching 15 episodes of an over-simplified “If you do THIS, you’ll GET him” man-hookin’ methodology gonna do sweet fuck all for you if men are even MORE simple than we’d ever nightmared anyhow?

Sure, there are tricks you need to know. How to grin, how to use body language to your advantage, how to talk, how to kiss. I’m just thinking it goes two ways. I’m hoping the media figures that the fuck out soon. There’re far too many clueless men out there. Let’s start empowering THEM for a change and see what that does to shake up the mix, all right?

(Besides, I have this theory that women overcompensate in the “hunt” for the man for the fact that they often don’t know what the hell to do with him to keep him one they got him. Sexual issues, et al, are probably areas that need to be explored more than the realm of how to get him onto a first date. That’s the easy part. Geez.)

nature is a cold bitch


ever noticed how, in cold weather,
women get sexier with their erect nipples
while men get shrinkage?
guess we know why, in primitive societies,
women always went topless
while the boys wore their little loincloths?