Wednesday, March 13th, 2013
Ahh love. We all want it, nay, need it (according to John Lennon). But it sure is complicated, ain’t it? Finding it, staying in it, navigating it – no one ever said it was easy. But you know what? When you find the right one, it clicks – sure there are still ups and downs, but when you find your partner in crime, the two of you get in a groove and it works. But in the process of getting there, people often make lists of things they require in a partner. Many people list themselves right into a corner. Stick to your list all you want, but you may just miss out on ‘the one’ purely because they don’t quite tick all the boxes.
Wednesday, July 25th, 2012
So, I’m browsing Kitty Bradshaw’s lovely blog the other day and come across her post about Tionna Smalls’ new book ‘Men Love Abuse.’ Rather baffled by the title to begin with, I read on and concluded I will not be purchasing this fine piece of literature. In a time where so much energy is devoted to finding a significant other, I really can’t get on board with the age old theory of ‘just be f*cking awful to each other and you’ll get married.’ Surely we should’ve come up with some more advanced schools of thought by now.
Tuesday, April 10th, 2012
Love came to me unexpectedly and I guess, by some standards, at age 29, rather late, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. For me, everything had aligned perfectly over the years to lead me to this one person who’d I’d been waiting for all along (I fully understand if you all need to take a moment to puke here, I almost do myself). My early twenties were a minefield of dating disasters – each one worse than the last and I’m grateful I never took any of them too seriously. When I see young couples now, 20 years old making plans to buy houses and settle down, I can’t be the only one thinking, ‘whoa! Slow down!’, can I?
Tuesday, August 11th, 2009
Monday, May 4th, 2009
So, a couple of weeks ago, as I was strutting down the street, I pass by a group of fellas. The token white boy in this multicoloured ensemble, stepped out of the crowd, looked me up and down and as I breezed passed him said, ‘Damn! She’s sexy as hell, for a white girl.’
Let me tell you, never have I felt so complimented. This guy had truly found the way to my heart. I turned, threw my arms around him and we’ve been dating ever since.
What the hell was my response supposed to be to such a weird compliment? Was it even a compliment? I can’t even tell. If nothing else, this is a clear example of a man who does not engage brain before talking. If you are trying to express interest in a girl, I’m assuming her reaction shouldn’t be complete befuddlement.
But of course, it was the ‘for a white girl’ part of the statement that had me particularly riled. I’ll have you know, fellas of every ethnicity have expressed interest in my pasty white Irish, cinnamon on whipped cream, freckled lovliness. I have arabs getting at me on a daily basis on Myspace, the occasional Japanese man while I lived in Tokyo and I was recently hit on by a 93 year old Bulgarian. None of the aforementioned gave me the ‘for a white girl’ speech. Given, none of them can speak English very well, but that is not the point.
The point is, I am one hot piece of ass, damnit! And while I guess it’s flattering that you consider me to be among the upper echelons of attractiveness when compared to my fellow caucasian bretheren, may I just take a moment to remind you, that you are white, you fool!
Not only that, you are really rather ugly. The kind of ugliness that knows no racial bounds. Women of all ethnicities will concur on your distinct breed of unattractiveness. The United Nations come together in agreement on that one. So please, I do not crave attention from ugly people with mullets, so kindly keep your half wit opinion to yourself.
Monday, August 18th, 2008
A few weeks ago, I met a guy called Greg when I was waiting for the streetcar. He struck up a conversation with me. Ahh, finally, I thought, a man with balls. As we know, men with good testicular action are a rare breed in this here land of Toronto. He was a fine looking man too. I’m talking 6 feet 4 inches of straight out of GQ magazine fineness. And lets face it, a pretty face always holds attention longer. Even though he wasn’t initially going in my direction, he boarded the streetcar with me and rode along Queen street to my destination. He waited with me until my friend came. As we stood outside the bar, conversing, he finally got around to asking for my number. Sure! I said, as I waited for him to pull his phone out. Nothing.
‘Do you have a phone?’
‘Yes, just not with me,’ he said.
‘Ooookkkkkk. Do you have a pen?’
‘You really didn’t think this through, did you?’
‘Just tell me your number, I have a really good memory.’
This was warning sign number one. There was no way Mr GQ was going to remember my number. I knew there was a catch to him being that fine. I told him it, kissing the numbers goodbye as they left my mouth and drifted into the night air. My friend came and Mr GQ left to go about his original plans for the night. Obviously, I was never going to hear from him again.
My standard 48 hours came and went, along with my interest. Then, the following Saturday, a full week after the initial meeting, my phone rang. It was a blocked number. I have major issues with people calling me from blocked numbers, which I won’t go into here, but if you’re the kind of person who does that, you may as well change your name to Shady Shadester from Shadesville. Anyhoo, I answer the phone, already pissed off, to hear some guy with a weird voice saying ‘it’s John!’.
‘I don’t know anybody called John,’ I say.
‘John! I met you last week,’ this ‘John’ insists.
‘I’m sorry, you must be mistaken because I don’t know a John.’ I’m less interested in this conversation and more intrigued with the notion that I may be the only person on the planet who doesn’t know anyone called John.
Then the voice changes. ‘I’m just kidding, it’s Greg,’ he says.
I had zero desire to continue this exchange with this psychopath. Who pretends they’re someone else the first time they call you? I’ll tell you who; a jealous freak who wants to know if you gave your number out to anyone else the night you met him. Frankly, I could have given my number to twenty dudes that night (except for the fact that there aren’t 20 dudes in Toronto with balls enough to ask me for it) and it would have been none of GQ’s business.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he tried to get over the awkwardness of that by spending the rest of the conversation asking if many guys hit on me the night he met me.
Umm, how about we fast forward a few months and wait till we’re actually in a relationship before you start acting like a jealous, possessive boyfriend?
Clearly, in this case, even if he had called in my 48 hour zone, we were never destined to make it to the first date. But one thing is for sure – it is frikkin’ amazing that he remembered my number.