Life Update: November 16, 2014


Sometimes I forget that you guys don’t live inside my head and that in order for you to know something I have to actually write it here.  My fear of redundancy is what often keeps me silent.  But when it turns out that half of the people on my own Facebook don’t even know that I have moved back to Vancouver (and still think I’m in Montreal) it occurs to me that I might have been remiss about updating people on even the biggest details of my life.  What can I say, I’m silent out of kindness.  I worry about boring you.  Nonetheless here is a brief update on the things that matter (or don’t, that’s really your call to make):

I have been dating up a bit of a storm (Spoiler Alert: there have been approx. 10 “somethings” since I last updated the blog with a post about dating).  So why haven’t I updated the blog?

Because I’m writing a book (well, a collection of short stories really) and most of those stories are going in it.

I’m going to be honest; I’m really hoping you’ll want to buy it and read it.  The hope is that it will be published in e-book format (and/or print on demand) in the next few months.  Obviously, I will keep you lovelies posted.

I’m back in Vancouver and hate/loving it.

I’ve lost 50lbs.  (don’t get too excited, I got super fat in grad school so I still have a really long way to go but you can click here for a quick glimpse of the progress).  I’ve also decided to start blogging more about what I’m doing at the gym, eating at home, and the overall weight loss journey.  Obviously, do not feel compelled to read about it, but my friend suggested it might be of interest to some people and given how much time I’ve spent combing the internet for tips on fitness, healthy recipes, and weight loss, I figure she might be right.  And, if those topics aren’t of interest to you then just skip on through to the other articles (or the book! yay a book!).  Also, if you are interested in this stuff, definitely consider following me on Instagram as I tend to post more there than anywhere else at the moment.

Speaking of Instagram AND book news…I’ve started posting pics using the hashtag #PossibleBookTitle (sorry I can’t make this link clickable here but if you type it in under search hashtags on Instagram you’ll find it easily).  This is legitimately me brainstorming and thinking through possible ideas for titling the upcoming book so if you like being a part of things, feel free to weigh in on your favourite choice(s).

Also, I’ve started using Tumblr a lot more so if that’s your jam, head on over and follow me on there.  I admit, I’m definitely a multi-poster (meaning that if I’ve been known to post a joke on Twitter, take a screenshot and post it on Instagram and Tumblr).  But the truth is, while hopefully there are very few of you who are irritated by this, there are often very different audiences who follow on each site.  An example of this being when I tweeted the following:

Not to be a total egomaniacal dick, but I thought it was pretty cool.  Yet, it only got like 9 favs and 2 RTs.  So, I took a screenshot and posted it on Instagram and then shared it on Tumblr (where it is now, by FAR, the most shared thing I’ve ever posted…at last check with 8000+ notes).  In turn, that bumped up the attention of the tweet a little but still nothing by comparison.  So why am I telling you this?  Basically so that if you are one of the people who gets irritated by multi-posting, I’m sorry but hopefully now you can understand a bit about why I do it (and thus hate that I do it just a tiny bit less)

I am very aware that as I’ve been working on the book, the blog has become a little lacklustre, having posts that are either few and far between or just glimpses of writing exercises.  While I can’t make any promises, the book and fitness have to come before anything else, I will definitely be trying to post more in the coming weeks (not just fitness/food stuff but also sex and dating, and other exciting stuff).

Finally, as always, feel free to email me your dating questions and quandries, and I will be happy to dispense any advice I can.

All my love,




aka SSDated

aka The Cheesecake Queen

aka That girl crying in the squat rack

Heart Like an IKEA Futon

IKEA Futon




If all the stories I write (at least the good ones, in so much as I am even willing to consider any of them good)…

If all the stories I write are really just my stories…

If all the stories that I write are based on what’s happening but absolutely nothing is happening…

How can I justify staying in this city and prolonging this summer?

If I’m not creating any stories (except for one about the kind of sobbing that should be reserved for death but is instead being appropriated for worthlessness and the lonely)…

If you can’t forgive yourself, how can you ever expect your student loan to forgive you?

If all the stories are mine…

If I’m the owner of nothing…

If I have more degrees than men who have ever loved me…

If I have the same amount of tears as number of men who want to fuck me but maybe not openly, not in public, not like I’m worth something, not like a human being, a piece of this earth, a part of our whole, not like I could make them laugh or think or be anything other than something not worth mentioning.

If I was ever more than just a whore on the internet…

This devolution, the spiral like a drill bit, these ants crawling around in my lungs and inside my calves.

How do you not let the disappointment crush you like a bread truck, or a freight train, or the compounding interest on your student loan?

This heart like an IKEA futon. 

If all the stories I write are really just my stories then leaving Montreal a month early won’t change that.  Whether I’m running away or being a financially responsible adult, the result will be the same.  Time will pass.  And somewhere in this lull I will find a way to pull it all back together (I have to find a way to pull it all back together).

The stories after all, if they’re mine, will come with me. (She whispers, “you have to come with me”).


Something She Dated: A Goodbye in 3 Parts

UPDATE:  This post went up on my website in October 2012, when I was busy with grad school, sad about the state of men and dating, and just generally burnt out.  You’re now reading this, obviously, on my new site – where the writing covers many more subjects than just sex and dating (thus helping to eliminate burn out) but I wanted to keep this post up regardless because it helps to show how I was feeling back then 🙂




I’m tired.  Is that what you want to hear me say?  You beat me, you won.

Those are the words in my head.  They look even sadder typing them out than they sound bouncing back and forth between my ears.  I want to pull the toque over my eyes.  I want to put on ear muffs.  I want winter to get here so I can forget all about the disappointment.

It’s been two and a half years since I started writing this blog; since it was just a way to avoid repeating the same stories to my friends.  I had had such high hopes.  Not for the blog, but for dating.  And now it all just seems so sad, so fraught with failures, so lethargic with let downs, so many damn dating disappointments.

I haz sad.  I haz dating sad.

But the truth is I don’t know how to write the crisis of this story.  I don’t know what the problem, with me, is.

I used to be so hopeful.  I used to think boys had such potential, such spirit, such masculine beauty, were so full of life and happiness and sheer unadulterated joy.  I used to think they were amazing, all of them, in their own special way.  But as the disappointments just kept hitting like bricks that stick, I just feel heavy, and I’m sinking to the bottom.

The irony is that I was never expecting one man to be everything.  In fact, it was like I was hoping that all men could just be one thing, if they could just be one thing…

Be funny.
Be smart.
Be passionate.
Be interesting.
Be lusty.
But I guess the implied caveat was the hardest part of the application to fill.

AND….Be interested in me.

Instead of finding this, I found a series of guys who I gave an inch and they took a mile.  Or threw the inch back in my face.  Or disappeared with the inch never to be seen again.  And honestly, a girl only has so many inches.

And while I still think I’m lovely…I have to wonder…why can’t anybody see it?  Why aren’t there any boys who think I’m funny, and pretty, and smart and interesting and who they themselves are funny, and smart and interesting?

Do I really only get one heart pounding relationship in life?  Is that it?  Is that all I get?  Is this why people get married…because you’re lucky to even just find one single person who can see that you’re amazing, let alone several?

And in all honesty, along the way, and probably particularly because of France and The Comic, I’ve become distanced from the very notion that there are men out there who want me to experience pleasure, who give a shit about whether or not I get off, who want to see me sweat and smile and cum and smile again, who care about more than just getting their dick sucked and cumming on my tits.  And while it seems dramatic (and problematic) to allow a few boys to taint my view of an entire gender, the feelings are there, the seeds are planted and I’m starting to think that my only choices are to become a sexual camel or to start researching the treatments for carpal tunnel.





But…it’s not just the dating.

It’s hard.  Putting it all out there, ya know.  And getting almost nothing in return.  Almost nobody comments anymore.  Sure, I get a few Twitter mentions and a Facebook like or two and yes from the stats I can easily see that readership is up…but still.  Can you imagine a comic performing for a completely silent audience, night after night?  Would you be able to bear your open breast for all to see, share some of the most intimate details of your life with complete strangers and be unphased by their near silence?

And I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it while it lasted.  My goodness, did I.  But when the chips are down and it feels too bothersome, too cumbersome, too…something…and you’re doing it just for you, it’s easy to say…I think it’s time to pack it in.  And so that’s what I’m doing.  Packing it in.

Now don’t get me wrong.  This isn’t the end of me, I’m not dying or anything.  I plan to continue writing (and that’s another big part of why I’m stopping, because I want the time to take my writing in another direction).  This isn’t the last you’ll hear of me.  And don’t think I haven’t appreciated you all along the way, hell I even brag about you sometimes like you’re my children, like your presence is a photo in my wallet that I take out at family gatherings and work functions to show off, my sweetheart, look at her, isn’t she beautiful.

And this is really the worst description of why I’m ceasing the blogging ever…because honestly it’s a hundred other reasons too.

It’s school
It’s life
It’s wanting something different
It’s wanting to continue growing and developing
It’s writing funding proposals
It’s finishing my first fictional short story for publication
It’s work (TAing classes and running tutorials)
It’s the fact that I’m turning 31 in just a few days*
It’s too many things to list
It’s too many things even to think about
And then it’s 100 things more beyond that.

And it’s terrifying.  Because it all feels so final.  Because it all feels so for sure.  Like I’ve just crumpled up the piece of paper that had my identity written all over it and threw it in the trash.  And now I’m staring at a blank page.


*I actually turned 31 a few weeks ago, this just took me a really long time to post





What do you do when you let go of the most interesting part of yourself?

My preferred method is to cry.  Like a grown up.


You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry.  Said, “Sit down,” and pulled out a chair while I seasoned my bowl with the drips from my face.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and rested your hand on my shoulder.

I stuck my chubby fingers into the bowl and squeezed at a slice but the slimy flesh swam away like a goldfish.  I bet it’s forgotten me already.  I couldn’t hear half of what you said because my ears were filled with water.  I was swimming in a puddle.  I was holding my breath.  I was hiding in the weeds till you reached down and yanked me back up.

“This is going to be hard,” you said, and then you took my identity away.  For three years I had known who I was based on the story that I told.  I was a dater.  I was a blogger.  I was a writer.  I had found myself huddled in the mess.  I had written my way out in spaghetti noodles.  I had dropped pretzels to become an adult.  I was covering my map in trail mix.  And then one day I wasn’t hungry anymore.

And now I’m standing out here in the middle of a forest, or sinking in a bubbling aquarium, or melting into the bottom of a chocolate milkshake.  The metaphor is not the point.  The analogy is not the destination.  I am lost in the middle of my life.  I don’t know who I am without this tagline.  I don’t know if my jokes will be funny anymore.  I am now a girl without context.  I am no longer a sex and dating blogger.  I don’t know what I’m going to say at parties when people ask me what do you do?

I put the peaches down and go into the bathroom.  I look in the mirror; I seem smaller.  I wonder if my laugh will be quieter.  I feel naked.  My cheeks are slick and smooth, today my teeth don’t shine.  I stare into my own eyes and you ask, “What do you see here?”

My tongue has muscle memory.  It rises up and shouts something loud.  It looks like a fist.  I want to eat something.  I want to eat everything.  I want to eat my own hands if only to stop my tongue from wagging.  I want to consume.  I want to run my tongue over every idea I’ve ever had about sex and dating so that they’re mine.  Just in case, just in case, just in case this was a mistake.  But if we’re being honest, they’re not that brilliant to begin with.  This isn’t nuclear fission.  I was just telling my story.

“What have I done?” I ask out loud, “what have I done?”

You tell me to go back into the living room, to sit down and eat some peaches and to try not to cry.  Say, “This is going to be hard.”  I expect it to sound harsh.  I expect you to be annoyed with having to repeat yourself but the words are like feathers, or bunnies, or white Wonderbread.  You reach your hand into the bowl and grab a slice of peach; hold it up.  Juice drips from the bottom, it shines like my cheeks.  You run your other hand along my chin until I open my mouth and then slip half the peach inside, lay it across my teeth, say “bite” and then “chew” after I do.

The peach is soft and squishy.  I can chew this peach.  I can handle this peach.  I can conquer this peach.  You tell me to try not to cry.  You say “hush,” and then, “swallow” and I want to.  My throat is our enemy.  My heart has beaten its way across town.  It moves in rook and pawn.  I watch the clock tick and tock.  I hear my heart thunder.  I swallow.

You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and then waited.  You made decisions like a grown up and asked me to live with the consequences.  Said, “This is going to be hard” and then changed my life completely.  You told me to eat peaches and to try not to cry and then asked me to trust you.  Said, “This is going to be hard,” and then rested your hand on my shoulder.

I tried not to think about the next party when I would fumble to find interesting words and come up short with I’m a Grad Student and then I would shrug to fill the empty space.  I tried not to think about the emails I would have to send to my supporters, to say goodbye, to say it’s over.  I tried not to think about anything except swimming goldfish and their 3 second memories.  I ate the rest of the peaches and went to sleep.  I’m going to be fine, I thought.  After all, I had seen this day coming.


“This is going to be hard,” I said.

Welcome to Montreal: Is this What Karma Feels Like?

Karma Fairy


[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o just in case you haven’t been following along.  This summer has been an interesting one to say the least.

I went out with the most ridiculous guy.

I decided on a grad school (Concordia) and made plans to move to Montreal.

I went out with a 23 year old who was extraordinarily thin and amenable (and yet then fell off the face of the planet).

I went out with a giant of a dude, who seemed smart, fun and into me.  I was wrong about the latter (and maybe the rest).

I went out with a dude, who I liked.  But he’s Top Secret.

And then I moved to Montreal.  And so here we are.  Well actually there we were.  Because it’s been 4 weeks now.  And I’m almost FINALLY caught up on the blog.  Though.  Swoon.  Do I have a story or two for you.  Just Sayin’.  Lock the doors.  It’s going to get…good.

I should probably preface this by saying that though I’ve travelled quite a bit (and a lot of it solo), I’ve never actually lived anywhere other than Vancouver (and it’s surrounding areas).  I should also mention that I don’t speak French (unless you count those 5 years of highschool French that existed over a decade ago and well…I wasn’t that fluent to begin with).  Finally, I was coming to Montreal knowing no one, not a soul, not a friend of a friend, not an old aquaintence, nobody.  So needless to say, moving was a big fucking deal.

The first week was the worst.  Sure, I made it here fine; not a tear was shed at the airport or on the plane.  And then I got here, and it was hot as fuck and the humidity (Oh the humidity!!!) was…well…tropical.  And then it was time to hunt for an apartment.  Which did not go well in the beginning.  Maybe it’s because I’m a princess.  Maybe it’s because the landlords of Montreal have a different definition of “renovated” than I do.  Maybe it’s just because things are old and instead of redoing them…they just get painted over…everything…with paint…what the?!?!  Basically I was gutted.  I had come to Montreal expecting to pay so much less than I did in Vancouver…and well…I ended up paying exactly the same.  That being said, I have a lovely view, there’s an outdoor pool on the roof (I hate indoor pools blech!) and my apartment is easily 200sq. ft. bigger than my place last year.  Plus I’m mere blocks from my school, 2 different metros, a mall, a movie theatre, and crescent street (which is apparently quite the big deal…I’ll keep you posted on this).  So, a week after I arrived in Montreal, I signed a terrifying year long lease (as mandated by the province of Quebec) and moved into my new place.

I had gotten through the week with only one or two tear-filled-hysterical-phone-calls-home-to-my-parents and I guess you could say things were looking up.  Unfortunately as my apartment was bare, excepting my two suitcases, it didn’t really feel like home.  Luckily there was a girl in the building selling her ikea futon and in one quick transaction (assissted by some very cute lebanese boys) I had both a bed and a couch.  Sure, admittedly probably the most uncomfortable bed/couch ever…but hey…at least I wasn’t a 30 year sitting cross legged on the floor.

Unfortunately, I was still sick.  Oh I didn’t mention that?  Well that’s cause it’s gross.  Now maybe it was the water.  Maybe it was the stress.  Maybe it was some combination of 18 different things but imagine a bad trip to mexico and here I am 3 weeks later and 15 lbs. lighter (don’t freak out though…a lot of this weightloss is due to the endless walking I’ve been doing).  The good news is somewhere around the 3rd week things started to get a little better in that department and though I still often feel nauseous etc. I’m doing much better.

Also, around that 3rd week things started falling a little bit more into place.  I spent 4 hours at Ikea and managed to furnish my place so that it at least somewhat resembled a college dorm grown up apartment.  And then put it all together myself…like a grown up.  Boom!

But that’s not all that was happening during that week.  You see, I’d changed my POF and OKCupid profiles to Montreal a few weeks back and though I had been getting messages, the truth is most of them had gone unanswered by me.  I wasn’t really motivated.  I was stressed, I was sick, and dammit I had bigger fish to fry.  Plus, none of them were really standouts.  I mean sure, there were some standouts in the negative pile (but that’s a whole other blogpost).

And then came a message that would change everything.

I recognized his photo.

Much earlier in the year, like March or April, when Montreal and Concordia were still just ideas of possibility, I changed my profile to Montreal for a day or two, nothing big.  Did I recognize him from then?  Had he saved me as a favorite awhile back?  Had he messaged?  Regardless, I’d never contacted him back.  And truth be told, I almost didn’t contact him back this time.  For a few very superficial reasons.

The first…he had a horrible user name.  It was something dark or like something that could be the title of a megadeath song.

The second…he was insanely hot.  No joke.  He was all muscle.  Real talk.  Ripples of choclatey goodness perfected into some kind of Zeusy god-like body type.  And as would seem natural, every photo was him, at the gym, working out.  But the pics weren’t like iPhone self shots in a dirty mirror.  They were professional big business type shit.  Was he a model?  A fitness professional?

Now I know what you’re thinking…why wouldn’t you respond to someone because they’re hot…isn’t that a reason you’d want to???  Yes…of course.  Except what if he was a fake?  Some creepo who wasted the time of chicks (and possibly lured them out) by posing as someone else, someone he’d stolen photos from.

Nonetheless, after a few short messages, when he asked…I gave him my phone number.  Now I’m of the belief that giving a dude your number is no big thing, and definitely not a safety issue.  At worst it could get annoying and at best he’d be smart enough to stalk you through some genius techniques and then I think we all know I’d likely want to date a guy that smart…so problem solved.  Also, and this is the real reason I released the digits so quickly…my apartment came with free wifi, unfortunately, along with several other beloved sites (torrent downloading, youtube, porn!, etc.) dating sites were blocked too.  Not one to be deterred, I would just switch wifi off every so often to check my messages but this was a hassle and texting would be a lot easier.

Plus…there was a bit of a language barrier.  He was French.  (Ironically not Quebec French but Paris French.)

In all honesty, when I thought about dating in Montreal, it never really ocurred to me that there might be a language barrier.  Before I left people just kept telling me everybody speaks English, you’ll be fine.  And so it was a little shock when I found myself trying to have a conversation with someone who didn’t speak English fluently.  Not a negative shock by any means, just a shock.

So where was I?  (don’t say “wrapping this story up” lol because this is the tip of the iceberg my friends…  Tip.  Of.  The.  Iceberg).  So we began texting back and forth.  And it was cute.  It was sweet.  And moreover, he was cute and sweet.  He offered to help me at Ikea, offered to drive me there, and help me carry all the heavy things.  He offered to help put the furniture together.  He appeared to expect nothing in return.  He appeared to just be a really sweet guy acting like a total gentlman to a newcomer, to a chick he wanted to impress, to another human being.

But…this ain’t my first rodeo and there was no way I was getting in a car with a strange dude in a city where I wouldn’t even know if he was going the right direction to Ikea.  But even more than the safety thing (because honestly…and though I often make this joke…if he was strong enough to drag me off somewhere…I’d probably want to date him…so ya know…win win)…all joking aside…I was more worried he’d just be some huge freak or something.  What can I say, I’ve met a few losers along the way and one of my greatest fears is that my date will embarass me in public.  Plus, like I said before, what if it turned out it wasn’t even him in the pictures.

So we texted for a few days (because I kept putting him off…after all I still had to buy a hair dryer to make this curly mop look presentable).  And then one day we were texting and I asked him if he’d met anybody off POF before.  A fairly standard question and he responded in kind, only then he added that his profile had been deleted that day and he didn’t know why.


My first thought?  They are fake pictures, it’s not him, people reported him, and this was all for nothing.  Blargh.

I casually suggested this to him (the part about being so good looking that people might think his profile was fake).  I’m super stealth, I know.  To which he responded with a picture.  Except here’s the thing, the photo was of the same guy in all the other photos, but if you can steal one you can steal six so who was to say this picture was actually him.

I then, of course, channeled everything I’d ever learned from detective shows or a Liam Neeson movie and told him that his pic could still be fake and he should send me one with him holding up 3 fingers because that’s a totally normal request from a stranger.  Which he promptly did.  And fuck me if it didn’t turn out he was the hottest guy in the world.  Seriously.  Is this what karma feels like? (not that I believe in Karma).  But if I did, would this be some sort of karmic reward for all the dating bullshit I’d put up with?  All the nonsense and ridiculousness and dudes who lied about their height and brought hatchets on dates (oh tedski (fix links)) and showed up wearing lavendar leather jackets and talked  about meat while making out?

But then of course, the tables turned on me.  He wanted a pic of me.  Ya know, to verify identity and all that.  Only unlike boys…or those chicks who sit around in full hair and makeup all day looking gorgeous and beautiful at every moment incurring my hate and jealousy like it was going out of style I was sweaty from putting together furniture, had no makeup on, hair was tied up in a hideous bun, etc. etc. etc.  There was no fucking way I was sending him a photo of my current state.  For a moment I thought about sending just a recent picture but if he was savvy and asked for a 3 finger verification or whatever, my goose would be cooked and there would be no eject button that wouldn’t have me crashing and burning.

And that’s when it occurred to me.  Facebook.

Now while I’m normally totally against adding people you’re newly dating (or haven’t even met yet) to your facebook…it has happened in the past and now would be a perfect time to break my rule.

First, because it would let him see a wide range of photos (me looking svelte from good angles…and yet also me looking plump and chubby and not caring about anything at my going away party).  Because though I always put up super honest photos of myself, full face and body plus extras, one of my greatest fears is that a boy won’t look closely enough (read: be blinded by my smile and happy demeanor) and not realize how chubby I am…and let’s be real…sometimes people are just total shit and so I wouldn’t put it past humanity that I could show up on a date one day and have a dude be like…what’s up fatty?  But I digress.

Second, it would make me feel more confident about meeting him.  Something about having a normal facebook with a normal timeline and evidence that if you’re a serial killer and murder me, there will be some kind of trail left for the authorities and my friends and family to trace, that made facebook seem like a good idea.  And so I told him as much (less the serial killer stuff).

He was cool with it.  And so he gave me his full name and I added him.  (Don’t all swarm to my facebook at once and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T MENTION ANY OF THIS ON THERE!!!!!!!).


(I’m not going to write To Be Continued like I usually do because let’s face it…there are a ton of posts coming…they’re all a continuation of what happened before…you should just assume that because of OCD prior experience with the blog that it always comes in chronological order…real time dating if you will.)

Montreal Moving Day, Leases and the Silver Lining of Selling Points

Signing a lease


I think I’m getting it wrong.

The countdown is on and I’m 4 weeks away from Montreal and well…I’ve lost sight of the adventure I’m on.  Called life.

To be honest, I’m terrified.  Or full of dread.  Or that thing where I cry daily because I’m no longer so sure that this is something I even want to do.  Because I’m no longer sure Montreal is a place I want to be.

I once thought of Montreal as a gold mine of happiness and delight.  I had already conjured up all kinds of images of making snow angels and tapping maple trees and that thing where you make candy in the snow (that’s still a thing right?? I don’t want to miss out on that).  Sure the rest of summer would be hot and humid and I’d probably have a meltdown or two or four thousand but at least I would have an apartment to come home to, a sanctuary to cry it all out, bolster myself up and go back out to conquer the day, a place to call my own, a place to breathe deep.

Only, finding an apartment isn’t proving as easy as I thought, and not for (what I deem) a set of logical reasons.  You see, it’s not because rent is high or availability is all that low.  The problem?  Quebec has some illogical fucked up laws and things that are illogical terrify me.  Kind of like terrorists.  Because you can’t reason with something that is unreasonable.

You see, apparently, in Quebec, everybody* moves on July 1st (which overloads moving companies who I’m guessing spend the rest of the year twiddling their thumbs?, wreaks havoc with traffic and loading zones, and basically fucks everyone who wants to move in or out at other times).

*Except…I mean…this can’t really be true right?!?!  Does this not seem the most insane thing you’ve ever heard??? An entire city moves on one singular day and fuck anyone who’s never even heard of this?!?!  Well…not quite.

See there are apartments opening up at other times.  There just has to be.  It’s just a smaller amount.  But the point of mentioning this whole moving day debacle is also to point something else that’s a bit…fishy.

Apparently, Montreal is the land of the lease.  You MUST have one.  EVERYONE has one.  So I mean fuck.  Because if I were to get an 8 month lease…super…only nobody gives those.  If I get a 12 month lease…well fuck…it’ll be super if I stay in Montreal over the summer because I have some amazingly well paying awesome job…but…fuck me…if I don’t.  Then I would have to find someone to sublet the apartment for the summer months.  But even then…okay fine…I could kind of deal with those things, I guess.

And then a friend tried to lighten my burden by telling me that it’s no big deal, you could always just break the lease and you’d just lose your damage deposit.  Only, that’s not how it works in Quebec (as far as I can tell).  First off, it’s not like in BC where when you want out of your apartment, you give 30 days notice.  Nope.  If your lease is 12+ months you have to give 3-6 months notice!  Like who the fuck knows what they’re going to be doing 3 months from now, let alone 6?!?  And if you break that, I’m not sure what happens.  I literally cannot find any information on the repercussions.  Sure I can find out all kinds of info about how you don’t, you just don’t.  But no talk of consequences.  Which either means they’re magical and non-existent or that you’ll probably end up in court and nothing sounds more awesome than trying to write a master’s thesis while worrying about your fucking landlord taking you to court because the plans in your life changed.  Fuck.  Me.

So there’s that.

And then we have the selling points.  You see, everybody has something good to say about Montreal.  The food.  The culture.  The nightlife.  The concerts. The fashion.  Though the people can be a bit brusk, a bit harsh, a bit abrupt or even rude.

Only, what if those aren’t the things that sell me on a place.  You see I’m chubby and not in need of a billion restaurants (fuck, I still haven’t tried 3/4 of Vancouver’s restos!).  And I’m sober (and turning 31) so the nightlife isn’t really a big selling point, unless you mean they have all kinds of bars that wouldn’t care if I sat for hours…drinking diet colas while hot men chatted me up, and I’m fairly certain that’s not what they meant.  And while culture is cool…I mean it’s amazing…architecture and all that…admittedly with every apartment front I look at, and google street view I check out, I start to wonder if it’s all a rouse because so far what I’ve seen is desolate concreteness that reminds me of 1970s structures (though I am aware that being somewhere is completely different so I haven’t given up just yet).  And while concerts and festivals can be great…I’d be going alone…which is fine in theory…I can do things on my own no problem…but I’m already not huge into large concerts (because…well…non-sober people get sloppy yo).  And fashion is great and all (I mean I’m super excited to know that the forever 21 there has a plus size section…so no more driving all the way to south centre just to check out some clothes).  But the truth is, I’m not very fashionable.  Sure, when I go out for an evening I like to look nice.  But well…it’s just not that important to me.  I’d rather worry about something else.  And then we have the people.  Who I’m just hoping (just shy of praying because I think we all know I don’t do that), that the Montrealers, the Quebecoise, the people of this lovely place, are being massively undersold because so far they sold borderline awful.  And that can’t be…that just cannot be!  Can it?  It can’t right?!

Because I mean, I think we all remember that article about how unfriendly Vancouverites are…and I know from experience that just isn’t true!  Sure I have some friends from my highschool days…but I also have ones from my University days…and then there are the ones I made last year…and then this year.  People I met from Twitter, through my blog, from friends of friends who met through yelp, at parties, at school, everywhere.  A young fella recently told me that when a friend of ours has a party…that you own that party, everyone revolves around you.  So the possibility is there that I’m an aberration in Vancouver…but I think not.  Because what about all those people revolving or the friends that I’ve made.  Life isn’t one sided and neither is the friendliness in Vancouver.  It’s a group effort.  And if a city like Vancouver, which is seen as disastrously unfriendly, can seem so friendly to me…Montreal can hardly be much different right?

And thus, in my signature round-about-lengthy-I’ll-get-to-the-point-and-sum-it-all-up-eventually way…I bring you to my point of the article.  About how even though I feel like there are all these downers happening.  That I have to find a way, to not let that define this adventure.  Because life is what you make it.  And mine should taste like maple syrup and look like a smile.

I recently went on a camping trip with a few friends and some acquaintences.  And to be honest, it was a total fucking bust.  We all had an absolutely miserable time.  That being said, there was a moment, there were many moments in fact, where we could’ve stopped the misery.  Looking back, I blame myself.  You see, what I should’ve done was take my friends aside and said look, we can either pack up our stuff, call it a day, and get the fuck out of here….OR….we can amp it up, put some smiles on our faces and work our asses off to make this the most fun camping that ever was.

And that’s what I need to do with Montreal.  Amp it up.  Focus on the bright side.  Keep my eye on the silver lining.

New Move, New Site, New Boys, New Life


New boys, new life



Some of you have been reading from the beginning.  The way back when.  The precipitating moments to some of the biggest changes about to occur in my life.  You were there.  I was there.  And now we’re here.  But where is here exactly?

Here is…moving to Montreal for graduate school (Concordia University).  3 years in the making and it’s finally here.

I’m thrilled.  I’m stressed.  I’m excited.  I have trepidation.  It’s going to be amazing.  I’m absolutely fucking terrified.

I don’t know anyone there.  Not one single person.  I don’t speak french (unless you include the 5 years of high school french I took which you probably shouldn’t given the fact that the only knowledge I retained is je suis fatigue [I am tired].)


Though I’ve been lucky enough to travel quite a bit, I’ve never actually lived anywhere outside of the lower mainland so to me this move is a huge fucking deal.  For you guys, it probably won’t make much of a difference.  Admittedly, I think I’ll have to say goodbye to my tagline of Something She Dated:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place One “Something” at a Time but otherwise then that you probably won’t notice much of a difference.

Or…well…maybe there will be some changes.  Good ones.  In my opinion.  And hopefully in yours.  But changes nonetheless.



AUGUST 2013 UPDATE:  It was but now that I’m writing about various topics I’ve got the new (and permanent…no more changes I swear) site here (which technically you should already know, since you’re here, reading it)

First off, there’s the new site design.  Like everything new, it’ll probably be irritating at first, you’re used to seeing this button here and that thing over there.  But like when you get a new iPhone, you hate it for 30 minutes, you adapt and it basically becomes your new boyfriend.  No?  Just me then?  That’s cool.

Rather than bore you with a run down of everything on the site, I’ll let you explore and see for yourself…or don’t.  To be honest, if you’re a long time reader the layout likely won’t matter to you.  Just know this, you MAY (read: probably will) have to RE-subscribe to the RSS feed (and if so, just click the feed button…it’s on the top right under the scroll bar and you’ll be good to go).  And, because who doesn’t like a contingency plan)…when in doubt…and you just want to read the most recent posts and you can’t figure out where to look but you know you want to read them in order…look to the right…middle of the screen and you’ll find the heading “recent posts” and you’ll be all set.



So that’s the next thing that might hopefully could maybe will be different.  Boys.  Hopefully there will be more.  Lots more.  Both here and when I move.  I expect a few more stories than usual because I have about 4 weeks left here and why not go balls to the wall right?!?!  And then of course not only is Montreal a completely new city that I haven’t yet dated my way through but let’s be honest, I think they’re a bit more my key demographic if you know what I mean.

Additionally, I’ll finally be able to answer (in an informed way) the truth about the theory that Vancouver Men Suck.  And I won’t just be doing online research, I’ll be getting out there, talking to people on the street, in cafes, in class, in the halls, around campus, on my bed…wherever 😉  Needless to say, online dating won’t be my only avenue of contact, I’ll be getting down in those dating trenches and loving at least 50% of the minutes of it every minute of it and then reporting it back to you.



Another change is that you may see a few more life related posts mixed in the…mix.  The truth is as amazing as this move will be, I expect it to be equally stressful and when stressed, I turn to writing and what better way to keep you all up to date then with posting about it all here.  Some of it may be boring.  Some of it may be hilarious and exhilarating.  I’ll be doing my best to keep it to the latter.  Read.  Don’t read.  I’ll still love you either way.

And that’s pretty much it guys.  All the new news in my life.  The loosely drawn map of the adventures to come.  It’s going to be great.  And feel free to leave me comments about things you like or don’t like about the site (and things that aren’t working or any troubles you’re having….unless of course the trouble is with the commenting system or something…and then…ermmm…email or find me on social media).


All my love, till the next juicy boy update….