Archive for the ‘dating’ Category

Such A Deal

Posted: August 5, 2014 in dating, humor, humour, Life, romance
Tags: , , , , ,

kirsten-dunst-8

The first thing I noticed was her smile.

It was full, and warm, and it matched the twinkle in her eyes.

I didn’t trust it at all.

She came up to me, and asked me if I ever had a facial.

“Yes, actually I have”.   It had been a Father’s Day gift from my children.

“Well good!  Can I talk to you for a few minutes about our product?”

She was gorgeous, and thin and she was wearing a filmy blouse that hinted of treasure.

I sighed.  My little guy had taken over, while my brain shouted “NOTHING’S HAPPENING THIS IS A WASTE OF TIME WHAT ARE YOU DOING OH GOD OH GOD OKAY”

The sun was beginning to set, and the warmth of the summer night hugged us both as I followed her down the stairs of the little Yorkville shop.

“Is green your favourite colour?  It’s mine.”

“No, actually my favourite colour is blue”.  Why were we talking about colours, I wondered.  She pointed at my green shirt.  Oh.

“Why don’t you sit over there while I try this product on you.”

It wasn’t a question.  I sat.

As she applied something to my arm (I have no idea what it was) she described the product and asked me bright questions while smiling.  Truly I had no idea which end was up, what she was using on me, or where this was going.  (Though I suspected).

“Are you married?” she asked.

I smiled.  “No, not at all.”

“So you’re happy.”

I looked at her.

“You know, either you’re married or you’re happy”

I thought that was rather cynical.  She carried on talking before I could pursue the thought.

I don’t know how we got around to talking about it but suddenly she mentioned tequila.

“I’ve never had tequila” I blurted.

“Really?  Oh we’ll have to go to a bar so you can try it” she said.

The woman didn’t lack for confidence.  I was kind of stunned though.

“We will?  Oh, I mean yeah.  We should definitely do that”

(“We’ll never do that” I thought)

“You’re eyes are hazel” she announced.

“No, my eyes are brown”

“No, my eyes are brown, yours are hazel”

Apparently this was not an argument.  My place was to say yes.  Even though I’ve had brown eyes all of my life.

I had to keep up with her.  I nodded.  She smiled.

She was such a pleasant winner.  A good-looking winner.

Also I was such a pushover.  I wondered how I was going to break the news to my family that I now had hazel eyes.

She turned to get another product.  I noticed through her see-through top that she had a tattoo.  It was comprised of some foreign words.  I wanted to ask her about it, but she started talking again.

This time she was giving me the sales pitch.

“What do you want the most?”

(You, in my arms would be a good start)  “Uh, what do you mean?”

“If you were to change anything about your face, what would it be?”

Oh.  “Well, I suppose it would be the bags under my eyes”

She brightened.  “I have the perfect product for that!”

(I’ll bet you do)

“Try this product”  She rubbed it on my arm, which I’d like to point out was no where near my eye-bags.

“It’s infused with diamonds!” she enthused.

(Diamonds!  That must mean…….uh, it means it’s likely expensive.)

“It’s guaranteed to help.  But you should apply it only at night.  No sense in putting it on at the start of your day.  Gravity would just pull everything down.”

I was getting an education.  I tried paying attention but she was so distracting.

“Okay then.”

She smiled the beautiful and satisfied grin of a predator.  “Shall I package it all up for you?”

“Package what?”

“All of the products!”

I smiled.  “Well, I would need to know how much it costs.”

“Oh” she said. “It’s not that much.  Normally it’s $1,600 for everything.  But…..since it’s you – and don’t tell anyone else about this – I’ll give it to you for only $800.”

I smiled wider.  “No, I don’t think so.”

She cocked her head and looked at me.  “Maybe I can take a bit more off.”  I shook my head. “Maybe I can give it to you for $700.  But you can’t tell ANYONE.”  She put a finger over her lips.

“No.  I’m sorry.  Can’t do it.”

She hesitated.  Then, “well, if you could only have one product what would it be?”

“The eye thing I guess”.

“Oh well I can help you with that!” she was pleased with herself.  “It’s only $400!  Such a great deal.”

“Uh huh” I said.  “Sorry, that’s too much.”  I mentally punched myself.  Why was I giving her these openings?  I wasn’t going to part with a dime.  Just thank her for her time and leave.

“Okay okay” she grimaced.  “How about I give it to you for $160 and you don’t tell anyone?”

I looked at her.  She looked at me.  I thought about her whole spiel, and the time we’d spent together.  I knew she was desperate for this sale.  I also knew I didn’t need any of it, and could easily walk away.

Some stupid idiot inside of my brain said “don’t disappoint her.  Just buy the damned thing and get out.”

I nodded.    “Okay” I said, aloud.

“You’ll take it?”

“I’ll take it”

“Oh good!” she replied.  “Let me ring it up.”

I proceeded to kick myself mentally.  Hard.

“Maybe we can go to the bar sometime next week” she said.

The idiot inside of me said “see?  Totally worth it, dude!”

I mentally replied to the idiot “there’s no way she’s going to a bar with me. It was all about the sale.”  The idiot went into a pout.

“Here, let me get your phone number.  I’ll call you on Monday, and we can get together.  Here’s my number, too.”

The inner idiot smirked.  “See?  And you thought she was faking an interest.  Who’s the idiot now?”

I smiled, took my purchase and left.

——————-

Later that weekend I checked online.  Apparently the product I bought normally went for $400.  So I did get a good deal.

——————-

After not getting her phone call on Monday I called her on Tuesday.  It took her a few moments to remember who I was.

“Oh, I’m at home right now.  How about I call you tomorrow?”

“Okay” I said.

(“I’m at home now”?  What the hell was up with that? )

——————

She never got back to me of course.

If it’s too good to be true……

Robert (not his real name) said: “Any guy who says he’s never had a gay experience is lying.”

I looked at him.  “Really.”

“Every straight guy I’ve ever known has either admitted to it, or he’s come on to me.”

I laughed.   “Tell you what, dude.   Any ‘straight’ guy who comes onto you isn’t straight.”   We agreed to disagree.  He let go of my hand, and I wiped his lipstick off of my face and we went our separate ways.

It got me thinking.   What is it about guys who find other dudes attractive?

That train of thought derailed and wiped out all of the villagers, including the town mayor, which was tragic and sad and we’ll miss them even though they’re just metaphors and whoever would miss a metaphor.   But then I thought: what is it about women that I find so attractive?   Why do I like them?

I liked that train better and decided to hop on.

They smell nice.  

They will tell you that this is because they use all of those special oils, and perfumes and emollients and soaps and cream and…uh…we don’t care.  We just know that when they walk on by, they smell like dreams, and erotic promise and good health and cake.

Also, everyone knows that girls just don’t fart.   In fact, it’s like they don’t even know what the word “fart” means even though they wince whenever guys accidentally slip one out.  The word, that is.   They do a lot more than wince when we actually let one go.  They scrunch up their cute little noses, and with a look of disgust exclaim “CAN’T YOU DO THAT OUTSIDE?”    (Or at least, that’s what I’m told, never having farted in a woman’s presence myself.   That night in Tijuana doesn’t count, as neither one of us were in Canada.  Plus I was drunk.  And so was she.  Also it wasn’t me anyway.  It was the donkey.  Donkeys smell.  Did you know that?   Just. Like. Farts. I digress.)

They’re soft.  

So….soft.   They have always been that way too.  We notice that the first time we see one of them.  All soft and giggly and gentle and soft.  Even after working out and winning the Muscle Beach bodybuilding competition, they’re still soft.  They’ll plow you into next Sunday, some of them, if you suggest they’re anything other than hardcore and brutal.  Better to stay silent.  When they inform you that they’re tough and hard and can break a phonebook in two, you nod, knowing full well deep in your heart that they’re soft.

They’re nurturing.

They get so concerned when we get sick, or cut ourselves.  Or even those times when we look off into the distance, thinking about cooking up a barbecue steak, and they get this little frown in their forehead and they look at you and they say “what’s wrong baby?   Let’s talk about it.  You look like you have something serious on your mind.  Was it a bad day for you at work?  Want me to rub your shoulders?   Maybe take you into the bedroom?”   At which point we forget all about the steak, nod resignedly and say “okay.   But I just don’t want to talk about it.  I’m trying to forget.”   Then, ten minutes later, we’re all sweaty and happy again.

They think we’re helpless.

Except around spiders.  And jars that won’t open.  And cars.  One time I hosted a party, and decided I was going to make a pizza and some hors d’oevres.  I stood at the counter, while the music played, and the guests were talking and drinking and laughing.  Two girls were watching me while I stood at the counter, staring off into space.  My ADD had kicked in and so I was  thinking about a scene from Big Bang Theory; where Sheldon had just expressed a heartfelt emotion, and then turned to Leonard and said “Bazinga”.   One girl looked at the other, sighed and said “Men are all the same.  So helpless.”  As she laughed she made a shooing motion with her hand and said “get out of the way.  We got this.”   I thought about protesting but then gave my virtual self a virtual slap upside the head.   “Sure”  I said, pretending to be relieved.  “Thanks – I appreciate it.”   My virtual self smiled.  I would have felt guilty but I know they did a better job than I would have done.   I mean that pizza was *good*.  Why does food always taste so much better when someone else puts it together?

They have curves.

So many curves.  I could get lost in those curves.  Men don’t have them.  Except some of us have protruding upside-down lightbulb curves. Irrepressibly and obstinately ugly.  In fact, I don’t even want to think about it.   Women and their curves just intrigue the hell out of me.   It just never gets old, you know?   I like how my hand can travel down a woman’s back, following her contour, exploring as if for the first time.  It just…… I digress again.  Never mind.

They’re graceful.

I think they practice this at yoga class or something.   When they stretch, they’re catlike.  Methodical, slow, smooth, and – there’s no other word – graceful.   Men stretch abruptly and belch.  Or we yawn, loudly and forcefully.    Women are much more aware of themselves.  I would guess that each physical movement is choreographed and practiced – except that it seems to be instinctive.   Anyway, I like it.

They fit.

When I hold a woman in my arms, I don’t know how it happens, but we just fit, right there.  Perfect.  Like we were made for each other.  She can be the same height as me, or shorter, and it just seems to work.  Even when they have to get up on tiptoes to make out with us.   We’re like a jigsaw puzzle.   So satisfying.   It’s like the universe just *clicks*.  I haven’t been with a taller woman yet, though I’ve been tempted.  The thought of getting up on a stepladder just to kiss her goodnight is a tiny bit off-putting.  What if someone comes along and kicks the ladder out from under me?   What then?

Might be worth trying, just the same.

When they smile or laugh, we fall apart.

Or I fall apart (can’t truly speak for other guys).   Anyway, they sometimes don’t know that they have a special power when they do that.  We just know that they do, and so we work hard at finding funny stuff to say, just so we can see it again.  So worth it.

I once had a passionate make out time with a girl on a dance floor, and she said to me, breathlessly “I have never kissed a boy like that.”    I struggled and blurted out “me neither.”  I paused, then added  “I’ve never kissed a boy like that either.”   I wasn’t trying to be a smartass.  I just wanted to hear her laugh.   She did.

See how that goes?  Attempt.  Reward.   You women just keep encouraging us.

They have a quality.

I haven’t been able to define it yet.  I might not ever, but it’s fun to think about anyway.   I don’t know if it’s in their eyes, or the fact that I’m always trying to figure out exactly what colour they are.  Or maybe it’s that their cheeks are so inviting.  Or even the fact that they’re angry sometimes and you know you’re treading on quicksand if you even ask why they’re angry, and you do anyway because you know it’s a sin to say nothing and they get mad that you asked.   They puzzle me.  And they excite me.  And I can never figure them out, because even when I think I have, they’ll prove I’m wrong again.

Women are like a fascinating ball of yarn, and I’m the world’s most playful cat.   I have no idea where the string goes, or how long it is – but I’ll play with it until I can’t keep my eyes open.

One thing more:  I’ll never, ever, in a million years figure out why they like us.

Man cave

“So why aren’t you with someone by now?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.”   Her arched eyebrow provoked further explanation.  “Honestly, I really don’t know.”

“You don’t seem worried about it.  Do you care?”

He felt lucky to have her as a friend.  He had a penchant for gravitating to truth-tellers.  People who would say the truth, sometimes harshly but always with affection.   They hadn’t seen each other for a few months, and had chosen the cafeteria at his workplace to catch up.

“Sure I care.  I’d like to share my life with someone.”  Even as he said it, he wondered if it was true.

He had been separated from his wife for twelve years now, and divorced for seven, with only a handful of romances to show for it.   Nothing that stuck.

“Maybe I’m too comfortable” he offered.   She smiled and sat back, looking at him.

“You know, there are some women around here who’ve been talking about you, wondering what your story is.”

That was news.  He sat forward, brown eyes piercing hers.  “Yeah?  What are they saying?”

She grinned.  “Oh you know.  The usual.  Is he gay or something?’

He laughed.   “No worries there.  I’m not.  I checked.”

“You did?”  Her eyes sparkled, teasing.  “Now how would you check something like that?”

“How do you think?  I watch the flag to see which scenery makes it flap in the breeze.”

She laughed.  “Yeah okay.   I’ve got it.   A little too much information though.”

“You asked.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

He frowned.  “Who says there’s a problem?”

“No, no.  That’s not what I meant.  You know what I’m getting at.  Why aren’t you with someone?”

As usual, he was a little uncomfortable with this train of thought.  He couldn’t deny her though – which made it worse.   They’d been friends for years.  He thought about that.  He mostly had married friends – women who were unavailable.  He knew it was a source of comfort, safety.

“I really don’t know.  Every time I think about being with someone I look first for the potential pitfalls.   That turns me off right away.”

“You know you can’t ever expect the perfect mate, right?”

He nodded.  “Of course.  I know that here.”  He pointed to his head.  “There’s a slight problem getting this to pay attention though.”  He pointed to his chest.

“So what is it? ”  She persisted.

He scrambled, knowing that it was likely that the first thing that occurred to him would probably be correct.   “Fear” he blurted.

“Good” she said, ever the pragmatist.  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“What are you?  My counsellor or something?”  Despite the joking tone, he was serious.   Again, they both knew it.  It was one of the reasons their friendship worked.

“It matters to me.  I don’t know why.   Seems to me you’re a caring person – such a shame to see that potential get lost.”

“Yeah”  he agreed.  “But then, potential isn’t romance is it?”

“No….”  she began.   Then the silence drifted in, pulled up a chair, and sat there, content and peaceful.

“I guess…” he began.  “After years of nothing but shouting and miscommunication… I’m probably a little gun-shy.”

“A little?”

“Okay.  A lot.”   He looked up, thinking.  She waited.

“I’ve had so many years of being by myself.  I like my apartment, and my routine.   I like being selfish.  Staying out till all hours of the night if I want.   Going where I want without having to worry about anyone else.”

“Is that why you haven’t replaced your cat?” she wondered.

“Probably.   I like the freedom.”

“Not everyone is like your ex-wife you know.”   She had been privy to his history.  There wasn’t any need to re-hash any of it.

“I know, I know.”  He said.  “I guess I can’t help thinking that they’re all like her though.”

“You realize how crazy that is right?”

“I do.   Doesn’t change much of anything though.”

She shook her head.  “My God.  You’re damaged aren’t you?”

“I hope not.  If I accepted that diagnosis, doctor, it would suggest it couldn’t be fixed.”

She laughed.  “It wouldn’t suggest any such thing.   But you know – if you start there, maybe you can figure out how to shake things up.”

He smiled again.  “So what’s your prescription?”

There was no hesitation.  “Get out there.   Swim in strange and weird waters.”

“Oh it’s that easy is it?”

“It is.”

“And how would you know this?  You’ve been married for quite a few years now.”

“I just know.  Trust me.”

He did trust her.   But he couldn’t bring himself to trust that it was that easy.

Have to admit:  since moving in to the new place I find I’m falling more and more in heavy like with it.  Not yet willing to pilot the boat to the end of the Tunnel of “Love” just yet.  Give it time.

Oh there are a few little annoyances.  Like the fact that the laundry room has “hours of operation”.  In the Old Place, there was no time restriction.  In the New Place – well you have to check your watch, and schedule the time properly or you may not be able to grab your freshly dried tightey-whiteys at the end of the dryer cycle.  Which means any old early bird can get in there when it opens in the morning and abscond with them before you can rub the sleep out of your eyes.

Gauchie theft is a growing crime problem, you know.   There are just too many guys out there, in poverty, who’ve never had gauchies of their own.  They’ve looked at the Sears catalogue with longing for so many years, always turning to the men’s underwear section, dreaming of the day they can slip one of these bad boys onto their privates, and smile with contentment, knowing that their junk is finally contained.

But I digress.

Oh P.S.  I don’t use tightey-whiteys.  I’m strictly a boxers adherent.  The reason for the use of the other term:  artistic license.

Seems to me you can say almost anything, as long as you follow up with that all-encompassing justification.

“I think you and your family are descendants of feudal peasants who never washed, because it never occurred to them to do so.  They’ve passed their penchant for soap-avoidance onto their progeny so really it’s not your fault that you smell.  JUST KIDDING.  Artistic license.”

Maybe it wouldn’t work.  The only way to know for sure is to test it.  If you can say the above and then walk away afterward without having to wipe blood from your nose – YOU WIN.

Getting back on topic:  there is much to love about the New Place: I don’t just have air conditioning.  The place has “climate control” – which is about a ton better than air conditioning.  Air conditioning involves a machine that you have to spend hours trying to fit in an abnormal-sized window.  You have to measure it, grab some plywood or plexiglass, and then cut it so that it fits with the air conditioner.  Plus you have to find a way to anchor it in the window so that it doesn’t fall fifteen stories down right on top of that Nightmare Litigator who will sue your ass for everything you’ve got (providing that they live).

No, I have climate control, which means there is venting throughout the apartment.  We each have our own controls, too.  I have *never* enjoyed summer so much, ever.  With climate control, there is no worry about water leaking (in my last place, water leaked onto the floor when I wasn’t home, resulting in the tiles becoming engorged and lifting.  Had to get someone in to re-do the floors), and it pipes the air into all parts of the apartment.  So cool, in both senses of the word.

The water pressure is great too.   In the Old Place, that was a real issue, and was the cause of an unending barrage of swearing in the morning.  Not only did the water dribble out of the shower-head like an old man with a football-sized prostate, but the temperature fluctuated just a little bit too.  Back and forth, from frightened-testicles-hurry-up-and-scurry-back-up-into-your-body-cavity ice cold to immediately-peel-your-skin-off-down-to-the-bone red lava hot.  So a five-minute shower usually took about twenty minutes to a half hour.   I started out hating it, but ended up loathing it with a passion.

And washing dishes was a fall-on-your-face joke.   That tap too trickled like the cutest little babbling brook.   You could get suds only if, after letting the tap water fill the sink (generally about ten to fifteen minutes) and depositing about a half a cup of dish soap, you then swished it around violently with your hand.

Yes, it was definitely time for a change.   Now, I have to really watch how much dish soap I put in, because too much will cause a soap volcano in the sink.   And showers now take five minutes.  Awesome.

What really kind of made this place cool was something I hadn’t expected, in socially cold Toronto:  I have some pretty neat neighbours.

Most of them welcomed me when I moved in.  The general welcome was something like “good luck in your new place.”   I’ve never had that kind of greeting before.   Most of the residents in this building are Jewish, too.  Some are orthodox and many are not.   There’s are three elevators here, one of which is designated as the Sabbath elevator from Friday evening to Saturday evening.   For those who don’t know, the Sabbath elevator allows folk to ride without having to push any buttons.  It stops automatically at every floor.

This morning when I went down to do my laundry, a couple of older women – both Jewish – introduced themselves to me.  We got talking pleasantly about the building, and about life in general.  It was pretty cool, especially since this never happened at my other building.

“So did you just move in?”

“Yes, I did.  In the middle of June.”

“What apartment are you in?”

(I wondered at that question.  But I told her)

“Oh, it’s one of the one-bedrooms then.”

(Evidently they knew the building floor plans.  Interesting.)

“And so are you by yourself then?”

To be honest, I get the feeling the older women here are trying to size me up – since I seem to be getting the same questions.  Maybe I’m a possible candidate as a mate for their daughters.  I can imagine the conversation.

“He’s probably making good money, since he can afford to live here by himself.”

“So pleasant too.  And good-looking.  He might be a professional man.”

“You think so?   Maybe my Marly will catch his eye.”

“Oh you know – Marly catches everyone’s eye.”

“What are you saying?  Are you saying Marly gets around?”

“No, no dear.   I’m just saying she’s good-looking too.”

“Oh.  I’m sorry.  Didn’t mean to get all meshugah on you dear.”

“Ah!  Think nothing of it.   You know, she’s probably too good for him anyway.”

“You think so?”

“I do.  And besides, he’s probably Goy anyway.”

“That’s true.  I didn’t see a yarmulke.  Oy, I’m going to plotz before I find an eligible man for my Marly.”

I love this place.

Rocky Romances

Posted: August 19, 2011 in dating, humor, Life
Tags: , , , , , ,

Look, Monday.  You can’t keep showing up on my doorstep.  Every time you do, you say the same thing.

“We can make it work.” And, “I promise you, this time I won’t mess you up.  I’ll set the alarm this time.  Make you some coffee.”

Every time, I let you in, and every time – every SINGLE time – I end up regretting it.  The alarm doesn’t go off.  Coffee isn’t there, I’m late for work and I end up in a bad mood.   When you’re around, things always seem to go wrong.  My boss decides he wants that three-day job done right now.  Then he only gives me four hours to do it.  And then, what’s worse is – he looks at you.  And then he smiles.   The bastard.   You’ve been seeing him behind my back, haven’t you?  Come on.  I even saw you holding hands with him.

No more.  Monday I don’t want you around here.  Don’t call, don’t show up, don’t send emails to me.  Nothing.  I don’t want your promises.  They mean nothing.   In fact, I’m going to put a restraining order on you.  Do you hear me?

Are you even listening?

Dear Tuesday,

Honey I’m glad you came into my life.  But I have something to tell you, as gently as I can.  You’re not for me.  No, no, there’s nothing wrong with you.  You’re great, really.  And no, you’re nothing like Monday.   You’re far more gentle.  Far more forgiving.  You’re good-natured.  It kills me to have to break up with you, but really, it’s not fair to you that we keep seeing each other.

No, I’m not seeing anyone else right now.  It’s just that….well….you caught my eye on the rebound, after the horror of being with Monday.   Sometimes that happens.

I know.  It’s shitty, and I’m sorry.  I have to go on though.   So should you.  Find someone more worthy of you than me.   Can we be friends?

Hi Wednesday.

You know, I don’t know what we saw in each other.  Do you?  No, I didn’t think so.  I guess I should have known it wouldn’t work when I first heard the ringer on your Blackberry.   I thought you knew that I hate Nickleback.   But isn’t it great we can end this now, mutually, without either of us feeling messed up?   Oh, you’ve gotta go?  Sure, sure.  I understand.  That Blackberry isn’t going to answer itself, is it?  See you around.

Well well well.  Thursday, you sure do have beautiful legs, don’t you?   Man, you put me in a good mood.  How about we take a little drive?  Go somewhere?  In fact I…

*gulp*  Oh.  My. God.   And what’s your name, gorgeous?   Friday?

(Uh, Thursday?  Listen, I’ll give you a call sometime OK?  Gotta go.  Something just came up)

Sorry Friday.  What was that?  You want to go bungee jumping?  Well I’ve never tried it, but..OK!  Let’s do it.   Man, you’re wild.  What’s that?  You want to get a tattoo?   I don’t believe in…I mean, sure.  Let’s go get one.   What’s mine say?   It’s Japanese for “Monday’s a bitch”.   Who’s Monday?  That’s a long story.

So, what did you get for a tattoo?  Oh it’s your new name?   When did you decide that?  Just now?  Wow.  You’re a little unbelievable.  Can’t believe anyone moves as fast as you. So anyway,  what’s your new name?  Saturday?  Cool!  That’s great!  It kind of fits you, you know?  I look at you with your long brown hair, and your mischievous eyes and…there’s no better name for you than Saturday.

Ok how many drinks have we had so far?  You lost count too?   Hahahaha.  No, I don’t care.   We can still dance.   Wow you feel so good in my arms. Man, I like you.  In fact…I probably shouldn’t say this so soon but…what the heck?  We can blame it on the fact that I’m drunk, so I’ll just say it.  I think I’m falling in love with you.

Hang on.  I’d better sit down for a minute.  My head’s spinning….

What?  You what?  I can’t hear you over the music.   Why don’t we go outside for some fresh air?  *coughs*  Wow, that’s some strong-smelling weed.  No, but thanks – I’ll pass.  I’ve had too much to drink, and that stuff will just mess me up.

*blinks*

You want to what?   I thought we had a good thing going.   Don’t give me the “it’s not you, it’s me” thing.  What’s going on?   We’ve only been together for 40 hours, non-stop, and you’re already seeing someone?   Shit.  I can’t believe it.  I mean i knew you were wild but…….

Fine.  I’ll see you later.   No, we can’t be friends.  I don’t want to be “just friends”.  Not with you.  You were the best thing that ever happened to me.   Never mind.  I’ll get over you.  Somehow.  Not sure how.    Hey, can you give me back my jacket?   I know you’re cold.  Maybe your new boyfriend can give you his.  He’s not here?  Well give him a call.  Oh all right.   I’ll give you a ride home.  But that’s it.  No more favours.

We’re here.  Can you manage?   Holy mother of God.  How much did you drink?  Yeah sure.  I’ll help you up to your door.  What’s that?  You have to puke?  All right.  I’ll hold your hair back.  There.  Feel better?

Ok we’re at the door.  Where’s your key?  Never mind.  You’re too drunk.  I’ll just ring the bell.  Maybe your roommate can let you in. Take you the rest of the way.

Oh hi there.  Sorry to wake you up.   Frida- I mean Saturday here had a little too much to drink tonight.  You’ll take her?  That’s great.   No, no problem.  Happy to help.  By the way – what’s your name?

Well hi Sunday.  Pleased to meet you.

Passion and Hope

Posted: January 15, 2011 in dating, Life
Tags: , , , ,

He was interested in her sister Angelica, really.

She was interesting.  Vibrant, laughing all the time.  Angelica always had something outrageous to say.  And he, being the quiet introvert, was attracted to her.  And they were in the same class together.

He was trying to figure out his approach when one day she whispered in his ear, during class.  “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I’ve got a boyfriend.”  Her excited whisper was actually quite loud, and he was sure they’d be caught.  Fortunately, they were at the back of the room, and the long-haired teacher seemed more interested in the sound of his own voice.

“Oh”, he said.

“Yeah, and he’s got this black Camaro that really rumbles loud, too.”  She blathered on, oblivious to the damage he was feeling.  “And it’s got a spoiler on the back, and oh boy does it ever go fast.”   She sat back in her chair, bum slightly forward and her legs splayed beneath the desk.  She glanced over at him.  “You know him.  It’s Rick.”

Rick. Yeah, he knew Rick all right.  Kind of a wild guy.  Didn’t talk much.  Smoked.  Definitely the black sheep of the church group.  Rick seemed a little tense all the time.  Like he was going to explode.  Only he never did.

“Well” she said.  “Whaddya think?”

He thought for a moment.  “He’s ok.  I guess.”

She frowned.  “OK?  He’s more than that!  He’s got a job.”  She leaned into him.  “We have to sneak away to be together.  My parents have no idea we’re dating.”

He shuffled in his chair and looked over at her.  “Are you sure he’s a Christian?”

She shook her head.  “Of course he’s a Christian!  He comes to Young Peoples’ with us, doesn’t he?”

He didn’t know what to say. He knew Christians didn’t smoke.  He didn’t want to argue with her.  He decided to say nothing.

And she looked over at him again, this time with a slight calculation in her glance.   She opened her textbook and said nothing more.  He let out a breath.

***

Angelica’s sister Mercedes was one year younger.  She wasn’t nearly as outgoing, and she wore dark rimmed glasses.   Her dirty blonde hair was wild, unruly.  The only thing he noticed during Young People’s bible meetings was her laugh.  It was musical and infectious.  And she burped her laughter out at inappropriate times, often startling him.  He always grinned though – he couldn’t help it.

One bright sunny afternoon, she took the initiative.  They had been walking and holding hands, but still, his painful shyness shackled him.  So she stopped on the corner, and looked up at him.  With a sigh of exasperation she pulled his head down and planted a first kiss on him.  His heart pounded in amazement, and he felt his face go red.  It felt surreal.

And oh so great.

From that moment on, they were inseparable.

One afternoon after classes, he went to the amphitheatre, to practice the piano.  She joined him, and sat on the piano bench next to him, facing away from the piano.  And as he played, she leaned over, breaking his line of sight to the music and leaned in to kiss him.  He thought she was worse than his cat and that thought kept him grinning through the kiss.

He pulled away, smiling.  “Stop.  I have to get this done.”

“OK” she said.   And as he started playing, she again interrupted his line of sight, and leaned in for another kiss.

So he gave up and spent the rest of the time making out with her, there in the empty amphitheatre.

***

As young, passionate loves go, they eventually split up.  She wasn’t allowed to date anyone, and so the Christian ethic “honour thy father and mother” came into play.  Mercedes was nothing if not devoted, so she reluctantly broke things off with him.  He was young and kind of stupid, and this was his first real romance with anyone, so it took him a while to understand that things were over.

By the time they broke up, Angelica had also broken up with her boyfriend.  She had suffered a possible pregnancy scare and this had sobered her intensely.  It had also scared her boyfriend.

He was still holding out hope that Mercedes would rebel against her parents and go out with him again, when one day Angelica decided to talk with him.   She said to him “let’s go for a walk, OK?”

It was sunny out, and warm, and he was miserable, so he said “OK”

As they walked along the dusty street, she started talking.  “You know, you guys aren’t going to get back together, right?  It’s not going to happen.”

He looked down, thinking.  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.    But….”

“It’s hard, I know.  I’ve just gone through the same thing.”

“I guess.”

“Look.  You’re good looking and sweet.  There’s no reason to feel so bad.  There are all kinds of girls out there who want to go out with you.”

He looked at her, shocked.   “There are?”

“Yeah”, she said.  “There are.”

He couldn’t believe it.  Didn’t believe it.  “Oh yeah?  Like who?”

“Girls!” she said.   “Just girls.   OK?”

“How do you know?  Did they tell you?”

She ground her teeth.   “Look.  Forget I said anything OK?”

“I don’t understand.”

She rounded on him, her face red.  “Can’t you just take my word for it?  God!  You’re amazing.”

His eyes were wide, as he looked her.

She shook her head and began walking again.  He caught up to her.

“Look” he said.  “I don’t understand….”

“Can we just stop talking about it?  OK?”  she barked at him.

“OK”

And it wasn’t until a few years later, when he replayed all of this in his mind, that he finally understood.

***

Over the years, he never forgot the passion of that first romance with Mercedes.   Eventually he married someone, and she married someone else, and they remained friends.   They both remained church-going people, albeit in different denominations.  Both remained zealous though.  And their families occasionally got together for church outings.

He was sure she knew he carried a fondness for her, though neither of them ever said anything.

One day, a few years after he divorced his wife, he learned that her husband died.

And a few years after that, he swallowed his trepidation, and asked her out.  And to his surprise, she accepted.

They met at a coffee shop near his home, and they ended up talking for hours.     They compared notes about their families, and he explained why he no longer went to church, while she talked about nothing except her church.

At one point, after their third coffee, she sat back and looked at him.   “Man” she said.  “Back in high school, we were crazy about each other, weren’t we?”

He smiled at her.  “Yeah, we really were.”

And they sat there, just smiling.

Eventually it was time to go, and so they walked out of the coffee shop toward her car.

“You know – it was really good to see you again” he said.

“I think so too.  Maybe we can get together again.   What do you think?”

He looked down at her.  “I’d like that a lot.”

And then it happened.

After all of those years of occasionally thinking about her, he finally did it.

He kissed her.  And she kissed him back.

She turned around, and got into her car.  And then she drove away.

His thoughts were in turmoil, racing at a million miles an hour.

It wasn’t until later that night that he finally realized it.

Sometimes, the dreams and anticipation do not match the reality.

Sometimes, a time of passion is meant for that time only.

Sometimes, you just can’t go back.

Skin

Posted: March 18, 2010 in dating, Life
Tags: , , ,

The Beast had the blackest hair of anyone I ever knew.  And his skin was dark.   Mom was whiter than snow.  You can see how they were attracted to each other.

I kind of imagine him as a the evil fairy stepfather.  “Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s got the most awesomest black hair, like EVER, man?”

Mirror:  “You used to reign o’er all the rest of course…..but your second-born child’s head will be blacker than yours…”

(Ok he was not my stepfather.  He was my father.)

(Artistic license)

Oh, and I was the first born.  The second-born (out of a total of six) was my sister.

We never gave any thought to our colouring – hair or skin – until later on in life, when the fact of our native heritage came up.  We are Mohawks.   Indians.  People of the First Nations.

We grew up, however, in a pure Caucasian society: school, Catholic Church, white picket fence neighbourhood.  We never suffered any of the stereotypical put-downs that other native kids put up with – the idea that all natives are drunks, for example, or that we give gifts only to take them back immediately (Indian-givers).    Mostly because the majority of the kids didn’t look native.  I sure as hell don’t (check my profile pic).  And my youngest sister has blonde hair and blue-green eyes.  So there you go.

Still, we are all true Mohawks, and we have our government-issued status cards as proof.   Some of that heritage has shown up in different ways.   One of my sisters makes dream-catchers, which she sells.  Another has delved deeply into Mohawk culture (as has a cousin of mine); she joined a Mohawk association and even attempted to learn the language.

I think it has shown up in my life with respect to The Wolf.  I don’t talk about it very much (and hardly ever in real life) yet some people have picked up on it.  If you were to come into my home, you’d see a number of wolf pictures on the walls and a wolf calendar in the kitchen.  I wrote a blog here, called “Wolf” which better explains it.

Skin colour generally hasn’t been very high on my radar when it comes to friends or dating.  Don’t know why, really – it’s not like I’m an advocate of political correctness or anything.  Teenage lust knows no barriers – or at least that’s my thinking.  I dated dark-skinned girls as well as light.  As long as we both agreed that I rocked, there wasn’t much more to consider.

A few years ago, when I was going full-steam as an actor (largely underpaid, if at all), I was part of a group of Canadian actors on a forum.   We met in person a few times a year for dinner and drinks.   At one such gathering, I found myself surrounded with gorgeous women, some of whom – to my *thank God* appreciation – were single.

One of them – a very short, dark-haired little Persian girl – noticed me, but evidently (she complained later) I didn’t notice her.   I explained that it wasn’t that I didn’t notice her – I did. It was that she was way too pretty, and probably out of my league.  So I saw her, and dismissed her.  Like that.

After dinner was done, and a bunch of us decided to go bar-hopping, she hung around and came with us.   Eventually we got to talking, and flirting.  Eventually there were just three of us: her, another woman (who I could tell wanted to pursue something with me) and me.   The dynamic was awkward.  I wanted to be with the cute little thing, and wasn’t attracted at all to the other girl (oh dear Lord – listen to this – two women interested in me, and I’m complaining that it’s awkward.  And that my uncle left me way too much money).

So there we were – all three of us – out on the dance floor, dancing together.    At one point, the other girl – let’s call her Blondie – left to get more drinks, while the cute little thing – let’s call her Cutie – and I continued to dance.   Our eyes caught, and she smiled.  I could feel myself smiling too, and we started to dance toward each other.   I couldn’t believe it, frankly.  When we were close enough, she reached up (waaaay up), placed her hands around my neck while I placed mine around her body and we pulled each other in close for the most passionate kiss I have ever had.   God it was hot.   We just stood there, giving each other the most x-rated kiss ever,  while the rest of the room danced around us.

We kept checking for Blondie, and when she got back to us, we broke away quickly.   Of course, now that we knew the score – Cutie and I – things got even more awkward.  I can’t recall how we managed to dissolve the triangle but we did.

As the two of us walked later on that night (well early morning actually) she said “I have never kissed a boy like that!”

I said ” same here.”

A while later, I added “I have never kissed a boy like that either.”

She laughed and punched me in the arm.

All that time – when we walked together, or made other people in the street or on the bus uncomfortable with our non-stop amorous and oh-so-public displays of affection, our skin colour was just never an issue.  It never came up.

Except once.    We were holding hands, and just sitting quietly together.  Both of us were looking at our joined hands – hers was so very dark, and mine was snow-white.   And we both laughed, right at the same time.

“Wow” she said.

“Yeah”.

We grinned at each other.

There really was nothing else to say.