You Don’t Squeeze Lemons Into Paper Cuts

When life gives you lemons


[dropcap]Life[/dropcap]   is what you can live with.  That’s what I always say.  And somewhere inherent in that statement is the concept that life is what you make of it.  The key word being You.  So when life hands you lemons (or in my case tedious dates and mistakenly optimistic, irreversibly awful sex) you don’t squeeze them into paper cuts…you cut them into garnishes and make some bevvies or something like that.  So when life handed me the experience of Cry Baby Romeo I figured the only thing left to do was make some lemonade.  But not before crowd sourcing a few recipes.  And by that I mean, I asked my followers on Twitter.

I may or may not have mentioned this but I’m 30, and while I went into our date under the premise that Cry Baby Romeo was 32, it turns out he was, in fact, only 26.  And while you may be thinking 26 hardly seems that young, for someone who normally likes to date in the 32-40 range, that’s a decade younger than the norm.  Couple that with the unacceptable bedroom moves and, needless to say, it felt like I was getting it on with a 20 year old.  ugh.

Not one to accept defeat, I took to Twitter, specifically approaching my quote unquote cougars.  You see I had questions, important questions, vital questions, real questions of regional security (my lady regions).  I asked, if these young bucks that they were so happily frolicking about with came with the skill and expertise of intuitive sex wizards or if they had to train them?  The news was disheartening.  Apparently young men are like IKEA furniture; a total steal of a deal and exactly what you need for that moment in your life but assembly is always required and often there’s a part or two missing.  ugh.  I mean, who has that kind of time?

But then I got a lovely little tidbit of advice.  Something so easy and simple that it seems almost appalling I’d never thought of it myself.  Clearly I’m not the genius I pretend to be, but I digress.  A lovely lady on Twitter told me bluntly.  Just tell him what you want, you want foreplay, tell him you want foreplay.  No joke. Real talk.  That simple.

And not one to miss a chance for hot sex to test a theory, I texted my on-again-off-again booty call of years.  The response was immediate and clear.  Apparently he loved foreplay, couldn’t get enough, thought it was incredibly sexy and a huge turn on.  And just like that, my untapped tree resource sprung a leak and I was about to be drowning in maple syrup.

He came over a few nights later.  And while I won’t go into all the nitty-gritty details here, I think it’s safe to say that my neighbors are well aware of my ability to stir up a good glass of lemonade.  And you see if I hadn’t had that disastrous-left-me-desirous-of-more-of-better-of-getting-mine-and-getting-it-good sex, I never would’ve crowd sourced, never would’ve gotten that simple yet ingenious advice, never would’ve been bold and brazen and simply asked for what I wanted, never enjoyed that maple syrup like it was the last my pancakes would ever see.  And so whether we’re talking lemons into lemonade or silver linings into cocoons of happiness, the message is clear; life is what you make it, so you’d better make it good.  

As for me, that night I went to sleep wrapped in sheets made of silver linings, questions answered, thirst quenched, life being happily lived with, and ready to wake up and tell you all about it.

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Optimistic Snowballs, Boys with No Balls and Disappointing Booty-Calls (Part Two)



To read the beginning of this second date with Cry Baby Romeo click HERE

For the rest of you, let’s just right back into it…

So like I said the movie ended, he didn’t get up to leave, and I was busy rolling snowballs.  And yet somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to move onto the bed with him.  It could’ve been the lack of flirting or the fact that I would have to find another way to be turned on by him since humor was clearly not a strong point.  But whatever it was, I was hesitant and frankly it all just seemed to cheesy.  So instead, like a pair of nervous 18 year olds, we put another movie on.  Good Will Hunting.  Which he had never seen.  Obviously we were doomed.  And then he made fun of my desire to live in Boston regardless of the fact that I haven’t ever been there.  And yes yes, I know I know, it all sounds so disastrously bad now.  But remember hindsight is 20/20 and it’s that goddamn eternal optimism always biting me in the ass!

And that’s when it happened.  I grabbed my balls grabbed a blanket and joined him on the bed.  It was all very go hard or go home and I was going to get it hard or he was going to go home.  And that’s when it happened!!

Just kidding.

I laid there awkwardly in some sort of big spoon to his little spoon situation for another ten minutes before he finally got the balls to throw up a move.  He lifted his arm and gave me the nook.  Finally.  And at first it was good *push snowball* not half bad I kept thinking *go snowball go*.  Only.  Then.  He pounced.  He turned to me and while I was expecting the icing sugar kisses of our first date, he plied me the weight of a thousand bad decisions.

I’m not even joking.  It’s like he was on top of me but he wasn’t.  I honestly don’t know exactly what was happening but it’s possible I was in some sort of pseudo lover’s headlock.  What I DO know!?!  Is that at one point I actually smacked my head against the wall because it had taken that much force to wedge it away from his misguided attention.

And then here’s where it’s like I had rolled the snowball up a mountain.  Slowly.  Laboriously.  I had committed to this goal.  I had plotted the plan and put it into action.  And I was at the top.  I could breathe easy.  Except.  Except.  oh my god.  it’s rolling towards me.  it’s going to topple me.  crush me.  and then it does only it takes me with it.  Before I even have a chance to catch my breath the snowball is dragging me down the hill over and over and over again.

You see.  In some sort of lightening quick motion we had gone from bad kissing to tops off to ridiculously misguided  unarousing pizza dough kneading  rough in all the wrong ways 2nd basing.  And I know what you’re thinking.

You told him to stop right?
You sent his ass packing right?
There’s no way you slept with him right?

And my optimistic head hangs in shame.  And not because I had a one-off.  But because I’m officially part of the problem.  I rewarded pathetic pansy ass no balls moronic idiotic undeserving unendearing behavior with sex.  Now certainly not repeat sex.  But the very fact that CryBabyRomeo even got to see my skivvies is a testament to the kind of dizzying effect optimism and the belief that people have to JUST SIMPLY HAVE TO be more than they’re showing me has on me.

And here’s the even worse part.  We weren’t that far in before I realized the snowball had obliterated me down the hill and I know longer wanted to play outside in the snow.  But, like how do you get out of that?!?!  And on the one hand, the feminist in me says you put a stop to it immediately, you tell the boy you’re not feeling it, and you send him on his way.

But sometimes you can’t think that fast.

And sometimes it’s just not that easy.

And there’s still always that goddamn optimism that thinks it’ll get better, if you just…if you get him to just…aww fuck just cum already so I can go to sleep yo…and quit fucking poking my uterus you moron.  And that was really it too.  If I was turned on maybe his long dick wouldn’t have been such a problem.  But I wasn’t.  And so it was.  And speaking of long.  It fucking went on forever.  FOREVER!  Worst.  Ugh.  Worst.

But is he really a moron?  For a hundred other things yes.  But for this, no.  Now to be clear, no orgasms were faked in the making of this disaster but…  I will admit that I pretended to be having a lot more fun than the real me was having.  And that’s mostly because I just wanted him to finish already and take a hike.  Worst. Blargh.  And I would file it all under things that I regret except for what ended up happening much later than week…all because I had ridiculously bad sex with CryBabyRomeo.  But more on that later.

For now I’ll just finish this decidedly disappointing tale of the booty-call that couldn’t.  After we had finished (and I use the term we loosely, as I clearly did not finish) and gotten dressed, he just sat there.  On my bed.  As if waiting for a chat or something.  I’m not even joking, I was literally ready to start tapping my wrist to mimic a watch with the international sign language for let’s fucking go buddy.  Luckily he eventually got the hint and hit the bricks.


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Optimistic Snowballs, Boys with No Balls and Disappointing Booty-calls (Part One)



[dropcap]Dating[/dropcap] can be very snowball-y.  A little bit of revved up enthusiasm here and a smidge of well what can it hurt there and suddenly you’re wading knee deep in a river of aww man what was I thinking!?!  Or at least that’s how it is for me.  And to be honest, I blame optimism…evil bastard that it is.

Cry Baby Romeo and I had gone out on Sunday night.  By Tuesday he was texting.  It was playful.  It was cute.  But I was busy.  He made jokes about coming over to my place.  I thought he was kidding.
He texted again on Wednesday.  It was tedious.  I’m fairly certain at some point I actually asked what he was doing and his response was staring at a wall.  And not to be one to let the conversation wallow or hold my tongue, I proceeded to ask then why don’t you seem more interested in this conversation?  His response not in the mood I guess.  Annnnnd I’m out.  Was he fucking kidding me?!?!
But here’s the thing of the thing.  I have a theory about bootycalls and how having one can drastically improve your dating life because it takes the pressure off the other dudes you are dating (and might actually be interested in) thus keeping you from doing any of the lust-induced ridiculous crazy-dater behaviors that we’ve all done once or twice before.  And so from somewhere deeply foolish idiotic ridiculous optimistic inside myself, I thought well I had found him to be cute, he was taller than me, the first kiss was good, and dammit if he didn’t have great teeth.  *cue the rolling of a snowball*
He texted again on Thursday.  And even though the behavior standard is lower for bootycall than date, he still needed to up the bar a little from the previous days pansy-princess/moody-maiden shenanigans.  He made cute chatter.  He suggested I come over.  I texted get a clue can’t…out with friends (which I was).  And then on Friday he stepped his game up and I clearly lowered mine to cockroach-eye-level.
Through some miracle of low points I agreed to let CryBabyRomeo come over and watch a movie.  But let’s not forget my eternal optimism.  You see somewhere in my mind I figured this could be fantastic.  This was really going to work out great.  And then I proceeded to spend the next 3 hours cleaning up my apartment which hadn’t had a good scrub in months since I’d been so busy with school that my mother had sometimes even brought me meals just so that I could simply spend the time doing school work instead of cooking.
Then, before I knew it, it was 7 o’clock and he was texting his arrival to my building.  What followed next was a series of disappointments that can only be attributed to my inch thick rose-colored specs and some reality-altering enthusiastic ability.  I was expecting the adorable cutie that had kissed me goodnight and I had clearly fabricated in my head since our first date.
*cue elevator doors opening*
Wasn’t he a lot taller on the first date?
Jesus he looks really thin?
Uh…take out your headphones asshole, I’m standing right here?
OMG…is he wearing sweatpants?
With leather shoes?
Am I being punked?
Am I being punished?
This is so awkward…

*cue him mocking the size of my on-campus studio apartment*
*cue silence*
*forever silence*
*endless silence*
*the kind of silence that would drive even a mime crazy*
This is torture

And then he picked a Chris Rock movie.
*cue 2 hours of him laughing hysterically at all kinds of not funny things*
*cue him texting or messing around on his phone or things that are rude*
The movie ends.  He doesn’t get up to leave.  And this moment here…is really where the snowball effect comes in.  Because like I said…eternal optimist.  Sure, it turns out the whole first date was some figment of my imagination because this couldn’t possibly be the same guy I had had chuckles with.  Unless of course it turns out that our witty repartee was actually just me telling jokes and him laughing along.  Sure he turns out to be yet another dude who thinks it’s acceptable to wear jogging pants on a second date and no this trauma is in no way negated by the fact that the date was a movie night. Sure he turns out to be incredibly rude and boring and tedious and also kind of an idiot since none of the parts he was laughing out were ever actually funny.  But hey…maybe he’ll be a really good kisser…and maybe he’ll make an excellent bootycall and hey isn’t this what young guys are for?
And I know what you’re thinking.
She’s not going to, is she?  And though the very fact that I can’t actually post up all the details here should in fact give the answer away, if you want to find out what happens…CLICK HERE.

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Cry Baby Romeo and Icing Sugar Kisses

Cry Baby Romeo


Because I said I would and a person is nothing without their word, that’s why.  So when Cry Baby Romeo asked me out, I said yes and we made plans.  But not before we had at least one more decidedly boring text-conversation, that is, until I finally couldn’t take anymore one word responses and simply said to him…Just so you know…a conversation only works if you say something I can respond to.  His response was a noticeable improvement in the word-count and presence of question marks.  Which lead me to believe that perhaps he was just awful at texting and not an entirely tedious individual or some other optimistic bullshit that allows me to keep dating.  And so like I said, I agreed to meet for a drink.

I almost immediately regretted it when he asked me to pick where.  ok relax, he’s not from here, that must be why he wants you to choose.  So I picked a place.  Coppertank Grill.  I’d been to the one on Main before and it had been the perfect amount of packed with tons of distractions TVs in case of awkward lulls, so I assumed the one on Broadway would be the same.  Good.  Set.  Done.

And when Sunday night rolled around, admittedly I was filled with dread excited.

Because I hadn’t gone on a date since August (mostly due to school).
Because he could turn out to totally surprise me.
Because I never want to be the bitter chick who has given up on guys.
Because according to his dating profile pics he was a babe.
Because I hadn’t had a NEW kiss since The Nick Name last Christmas.
Because I’m a dating blogger and what if I run out of material.
Because how bad could it be.
Because I might actually have fun.

I showed up fifteen minutes early (look at me being a good person) to find CryBabyRomeo already there.  And do you know how I new it was CryBabyRomeo before even going inside?!?!  Because the place was dead.  Seriously deserted.  In the entire restaurant there was maybe 15 people total, including staff.  Awkward.

At first, I swear he was not pleased to see me.  Did he even smile?  Super.  But not one to be pouty, I flashed him my friendliest grin and did my best to be extra warm and bubbly.  I smiled.  I asked questions.  He rubbed his forehead.  I’m not even joking, the dude looked like he was in pain.  He was basically auditioning for an Advil commercial.  But I mean what do you do?  what do you do?  (anyone who just read that in Dennis Hopper’s voice a la Speed should definitely contact me immediately because I want to date you).  So what did I do?

I just carried on.  Ordered my standard diet coke, and he thankfully ordered a drink while I sat there and hoped a little alcohol might loosen this dude up.  And miracle of miracles. it did.  Somewhere around the one hour mark this Dudley Doolittle of Disappointment became a real live date.  There was laughter.  There were jokes.  And it became increasingly clear that he was pleased with my appearance (not because I’m hideous but isn’t that the biggest complaint boys seem to make of online dating?  Thus, I’m always seeking reassurance that, in fact, my photos represent me perfectly…and they did).

Somewhere around the two hour mark, we were laughing so hysterically that I mentioned how the subject was so hilarious that nothing I could offer now would even hope to compare.  He suggested I try anyway and with my mind in a state of utter blankness, I said the first thing I could think of  So…uh…do you like pool?  To which he responded an enthusiastic YES!  followed by We should go play.  Right now? I asked.  Right now he said.  Possibly the first indication that the man had balls after all.  And in the blink of an eye we were at Guys and Dolls Billards on Main.  Which, to be honest, as far as pool halls go, was pretty awesome.  We played a few games, I won more than my fair share and he took it like a champ.

Now aside from all the obvious innuendo of playing a game based on sticks, balls and holes, the game of pool can be incredibly sexy.  What with all the leaning and bending and showing and the what not.  And though I didn’t actually need any pointers, CryBabyRomeo still found plenty of welcomed opportunities for closeness. The flirting was adorable and the tension palpable.  I’m not entirely sure how we went from rubbing foreheads and awkward conversation to laughter and sexual heat but arrive there we did.

But like all fun and games, this one had to end.  The night was getting on, so we packed up the balls, he paid and we headed outside.  It was freezing.  I was wearing about 4 layers.  And Yet.  And Yet.  Le Sigh.  This boy had moves.  All prior pansiness aside, the man knew what was what.  And in the beat of a heart, he had slipped his hands into my jacket, around my waist and pulled me towards him.  Flawless.  His lips met mine.  Briefly.  Gently.  The slightest of parting with the subtlety and sweetness of icing sugar.  First date.  First kiss.  New “Something

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Vancouver Dating Blog: That’s What Friends Are For

That's what friends are for

[dropcap]He[/dropcap] first messaged, on Plenty of Fish, back in mid-December but I was busy with exams and keeping my priorities straight.  Which was exactly what I told him and he was okay with waiting.  He asked for my number and I gave it.  Texting ensued but it was not good.  He had just moved here from Toronto.  He was an actor.  He was a cry-baby complainer.  I was not intrigued.  Except for the fact that he had been doing stand-up for the last ten years, or so he said and we all know that just because someone claims something doesn’t make it truth.  But I was optimistic as I waited for proof.  waiting…waiting…

First he complained about Vancouver.  “The shops here suck, the weather here sucks.”  Did he just talk shit about my mamma city?  

Then he complained about the people.  “Everyone here is stuck up.”  And while I may or may not have just conceded this point in my recent article…it drives me nuts when people can’t see both sides of a problem.  Perhaps Vancouverites simply weren’t digging his woe-is-me-eeyore-tear-stained-cheeks-man-child attitude.  It’s just a thought.

And then he hit me with what I can only assume was his closer, his sure-fire, his never-miss, his lady-bagger.  “I’m bored senseless, and I don’t have any friends here.”  I was basically a cat in heat hearing all this.  I mean who wouldn’t want this charmer.  I practically fell off my chair.  Swoon.

And maybe it was because this was quite possibly the most stressful time of my entire life, my future academic career hanging in the balance and all that.  Or maybe I’d just had it with morons in general.  But I couldn’t hold back.  I couldn’t bite my tongue still my texting fingers.  And so I told him.  Exactly what I thought.  In the politest most concise way I could think of.  Because I wasn’t trying to hurt his feelings.  If anything I wanted the best for him.  Me.  And I was simply going to have to hold his hand on the way to get it.

I told him that this wasn’t the way to impress a girl.  That this was the kind of thing one should be telling their friends.  That’s what friends are for, yo.  And he pathetically mentioned something about not having any friends here.  Had this boy never heard of phonecards? or skype?  And maybe I should’ve just stopped talking to him right then and there.  But I’m not heartless.  And I did think to myself that while dating seemed unlikely, maybe I could be his friend instead.  Help the poor guy out.  Except the truth is, I was still waiting for that comedian to show himself and give me a little volley.  Toss a joke back and forth.  Banter a bit.  I still had hope, ya know.

And though it was not funny, we did end the text conversation on a slightly higher note.  Okay he conceded to my excessive and all consuming wisdom gentle advice but can I still take you out.  I couldn’t imagine why he would want to after I’d just killed his kittens and stolen his lunch money advised him on social protocol.  But he’s a dude after all.  And so his response to my really? why? was short and to the point.  Which I can respect.  And admittedly, was the thing that kept him in the game.  Because you’re really hot.

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time