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.

Vancouver Dating Blog: You Can Always Come Home To Me

How to Write a Dating Profile

It’s been a long time coming.

I’ve been meaning to write it for ages.

But somehow I just kept putting it off.

Because it’s not really a dating post, or a humor post, or a sex post, or a poetry post even, it’s a post about me.  Little old me, and what I’ve been up to and what (not who) I’ve been doing.  Because admittedly, in this last year, it might have gotten a little confusing.  So I’ll try to keep it as short and sweet as possible and if there’s any questions at the end…well…that’s what the comment section is for, right?

In September I started back at UBC.

I was approached by a dating website who wanted to buy (like with real money) my writing, both past and future.  I thought long and hard about it and though I hated the idea of parting with my writing (not a first rights kind of deal, a complete selling of ownership type deal) I figured I’d always have more material and beggars can’t be choosers and a number of other considerations that had me agreeing.  And so that’s what I did (which is why, you may or may not have noticed, many of my old blog posts disappeared).  For the next 6 months or so things were peachy.  I mean school was insane and my own blog pretty much fell to the way-side but I simply directed all my readers over to the dating website I had been working for to read my posts.  And then sometime around the end of January-ish something happened.  I had to sever ties with the site.  Unfortunately, the owner and I had some very different ideas about the ethics of editing (much like the differing laws in Canada and the States) and that was that.  He owned my words and I asked for my name to be removed from all content.  Ties severed.

However, very close to the same time I was approached by an Editor at The Province who asked if I would like to blog for them.  Ecstatic, I, of course, agreed.  And that was that, I’ve been happily blogging for the Province ever since.  But, I mean, there’s only so much writing about sex and dating a girl can do, especially when I was still in school at the time.  So for the time being, I publish on The Province and shortly after the article goes up on my own blog, this one right here.  Now of course, there’ll probably be exceptions (like say with this post, this one has no need to go on The Province’s site, and posts that contain poetry will always only go up here).

Additionally, I’ve started blogging as a #SWEXPERT for a UK dating site called Singles Warehouse, along with numerous other bloggers.  And while I’m not certain how or where the relationship will progress too, like my work for The Province, it will eventually end up on my own site (this one, in case that wasn’t clear lol).

Now, here I am in early May and I’ve graduated from UBC with my 2nd BA.  I have been accepted to Georgia State University, North Carolina State University, University of Massachusetts (Boston), and University of Saskatchewan, and I’m still waiting to hear back from Concordia and George Washington University.

What any of this means for the future I don’t know.  Will I be moving from Vancouver in September?  Can I really afford to take on the debt of an American University?  What would it be like to live in Saskatoon, a place I’ve heard I would eat the boys alive, and what if there were no boys at all who wanted to be eaten?  Will I take a year off, work and save as much as possible, and then reapply to schools next year (because at least now I know that getting in is a likely possibility; to be honest, I had been bracing myself for an across the board rejection)?  Could I continue to write about “Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time” or write for The Province, if I neither lived in Vancouver, nor the province of BC?  Will I spend the summer writing a book?

Who knows.  I have no real answers.  Yet.  But I’m happy.  And the future is bright.  And when in doubt over where to find my writing, know that it will always come home here at Something She Dated, ready and waiting for your loving eyes with its open arms.


Legitimate Fictional Character or Sunshine French Toast Love

Friend:   “You’re legitimately a Carrie Bradshaw”
Me:  “I like that I’m now legitimately a fictional character”

“It’s like wanting to be a rapper or a basketball star,” I say, to Mega Love over breakfast, his fork holding french toast meant for my mouth.  “Naw!” He says, “It’s not like that at all” his head shaking and the sweet carbs tease my tongue.  I laugh.  It’s because he loves me.  And that’s what I tell him.  He’s barely ever read my writing.  My choice not his.  I’m bizarrely protective of my words (or my heart, you could say) with those closest to me though I share them like air here on this blog.  “Nope” he says, “It’s because you’re talented” and I can see this thing in his eye.  Like the image he holds there, the one he knows in his heart and feels in his bones, his image of me, stretches hope like a river of endless possibilities.  Stands side by side with my Father who believes I could get into Harvard if I really tried, holding hands with my Mother who asks about Pullitzers in a way that makes space for me to win one.  “You’re amazing” he says and I have to take a sip of coffee, this lump in my throat threatening to make a scene with wet eyes.  Our knees touch under the table.  He won’t let me share my food.  Feeds me like a cub from his plate again.  Kiss in public.  A love that can’t be explained when they ask why we’re not together.  Can’t be explained when they ask how we can continue to eat this love, over breakfasts, on weekends spent away from my dating and his Seattle.  Can’t be explained in any other way except in that image.  Of me in his eyes, his eyes on me, eating French Toast like it was made of sunshine in a world where I could become a writer.

And then somehow, when I wasn’t looking, he kind of became right.  And I kind of became a writer.

[Note:  the rest of this post is deleted because I write for all new things but I didn’t want to delete the post altogether because I like how it sums up the day with Mega Love <3]



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

The End of An Era. The Beginning of Another.


Studying for the GRE

[dropcap]The truth is[/dropcap] I don’t really know what happened.  What has happened.  What is happening.  But it’s not fun like it used to be.  There was a time that dating felt like an adventure and boys felt like prizes.  But now.  They feel like punishments.  They feel like anger.  And frustration.  They feel like sharp objects.  Digging into me.  Dividing me.  Tearing away at all the good bits I’ve built up.  Every disappointment (and they seem to be endless) feels like claws tearing at the cotton candy I had so happily swaddled myself in.  They feel like a waste of time.  And I can’t bear to be in this place.  To live in a place where I despise an entire gender.  (Okay well not everyone in the gender).  But seriously.  Rage.  Tears.  Rage.  Tears.  Hope.  Disappointment.  Rage.  Tears.  Rage.  Tears.

And I need a change.  Now before you all get concerned I’ve gone off the deep end or something I assure you I haven’t.  The truth is I expect that a great deal of additional pressure is placed upon the disappointments of boys….by the fact that not only am I pissed with the disappointment…but there’s self-focused anger.  I should’ve been studying.  I should’ve been working.  I should’ve been exercising.  I should’ve been writing a book.  I shoulda shoulda shoulda been doing anything other than wasting time on boys.  So never fear.  I won’t be spending all my future time moping around doing nothing.  I’ll be reading those books.  Yeah those ones in the picture.  Up There.   Yes all of them.  Yes right away.  Yes studying for the GRE and the GRE subject test.  Yes getting a summer job.  Yes working my ass off and losing even more Biggest Loser weight.  Yes getting into Grad School.

And YES writing a book.  It might not happen right now.  Right away.  But I’m young.  And I have a lifetime of writing ahead of me.  And when I do.  Of course I’ll alert you all immediately, if not sooner.  And maybe one day I’ll even come back here.  To this blog.  To this blog that I love.  With all my heart.  My heart that will eventually bounce back to its cotton-candy-boy-lovin’-happiness.  I’m certain of it.  But for now.  For this   breath.  For.  This.  Very.  Moment.  I have to call it a day.  I have to walk away.  I have to let it be.  Until I become that girl again.  The one with a love of boys.  The one that wrote posts like these…and meant it.

Boys of Summer(fix links)
I’m Retarded for You
Army Fun or Being All the Single I Can Be
And for those looking for a bit of a saucier-racier-more-grown-uppy-more-swoony-more-SLUTmazing send off.  Here are a few choice posts.
And finally.  A few bits of housekeeping.  For now. I’m going to keep my Twitter:  SSDated.  I may continue to be as active as ever.  I may not.  Of that I’m not sure.  Also.  A little while ago I wanted to do some writing.  About Twitter.  About life.  About whatever.  So I created another blog.  And you may see some writing on there from time to time.
Update:  It’s this blog you’re now reading

So until we see each other again.  I want you all to know how much I’ve loved your presence…reading your comments…heeding or counter-arguing your advice…always eager for your presence again.  I am forever in your debt.  Always Love.  Always Yours.  For This.  Very.  Moment.  And all that come after it.  It’s been a slice.  Deuces.

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

Catching You Up, or Girls Do It Better

[dropcap]It seems [/dropcap]to always be like this.  After having not written for awhile.  I get stumped.  And not because I have nothing to say.  But the complete opposite, in fact.  I have too much to say.  Months of stuff to say.  Because though I’ve written a post or two since then.  I still have stuff to tell you.  From December, and January, and Febraury, and March, and April.  Things like…

how I went on a date once. Something like 8 years in the making.  And it was amazing.  There was laughter.  And tears.  Princess crowns and sex chatter.  See the thing is.  I’d been waiting to meet this chick.  For ages.  We’d been in contact since before there was a Mega Love.  Since before there was Facebook and Twitter, way back before there was MySpace and Fotki, way back in the days of Blackplanet.  And so over Christmas break, I went to visit her.  Drove hours and hours for a date.  And it was amazing.  Because afterall, girls do it better.

I thought I might need a pass to her heart.  Turns out I just needed one to get onto the base.  Are you Hispanic, the desk clerk asked.  Like that was somehow relevant.  Are you allowed to ask me that, is that even legal?  Shit like that doesn’t happen in Canada I said.  No I’m not, I told her.  And I thought dating was bad, I stood there in judgment, of a country that holds borders like desperation.

But alas, they let me in.  McChord Airforce Base.  Turns out I’m not quite the criminal/trouble maker I like to think myself.  So off we went on our date.  Met the kids.  Met the hubs.  And that’s when it happened.  I knew it was meant to be.  Real true love shit.  Perfect first date magic.  Signifying of soul mate connection.  She asked if I wanted something to drink.  And then offered me a Diet Coke.  That she had bought.  A whole pack.  Extra special.  Just for me.  In preparation of my arrival.  Because she had listened.  To all those dates before.  All those before.  All those “somethings” before.  And she knew what I wanted.  A crisp.  Sparkly.  Diet Coke.  Weather Girl hit it out of the park.  😉  And then suddenly our date was a threesome.  And the hilarity continued.  Dinner and cupcakes.  Boy chatter and reminiscing.  Babies and kidlets.  Love.  Love.  Love.  And that’s why girls do it better.  Because after I left.  I knew.  Exactly where I stood with everybody. And they with me.  Weather Girl.  Jenny Hustle.  Together something like awesome.  On a girl-date something like a lasting friendship.

And for those on Facebook.  Well MY facebook I mean.  The best part are the pictures.  Me in my princess crown.  EVERYBODY doing my signature pose.  And then of course the tagline.  Wondering if there would be any trouble getting me on the base.  Weather Girl asked the hubs.  And his answer.  I don’t know…I’ve never smuggled a foreigner on post before. Awesome.

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

They Blew My Mind. Twice.

[dropcap]There[/dropcap] we were.  Having ladies night.  A night filled with boy chatter.  My boys.  Their boys.  Boys in general.  Boys in specific.  Boys doing stupid boy things.  Boys and their special boy ways.  Boys we were swooning over.  Boys making us want to tear our hair out.  Boys to laugh with.  Laugh at.  Loathe.  Love.  Boys Boys Boys.

And I can’t even tell you exactly how we got there.  To that point in the conversation.  But there it was.  Dropped like a bomb.  This thing I couldn’t comprehend.  Not in the sense I didn’t believe it to be true.  But that I couldn’t…Empathize?  Associate?  Relate?  I literally couldn’t imagine life as such.  No judgment.  And it really was like dropping bombs.  They fucking blew my mind.  The first one.

I’ve only slept with 2 people.  In my life.

Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk!  Mind blown.  And then the other.
I’ve only slept with 3.  Ever.
Kaapppuuussshhhhhkkkk!  Mind blown.  I was speechless.  

Okay that’s not totally true.  There were a lot of Oh My Gods and I can’t…how…I can’t…how is that even possible…I can’t even fathom.  And then Seriously?!?!?!  Seriously?  And then of course the statement that characterized the night.  You two just blew my mind.  My mind is fucking blown.  *hand gestures to indicate head being blown*  BLOWN!  And for reference yes.  I believe the table of 10 guys sitting right next to us.  May have gotten a kick out of this whole scenario.  BLOWN!!!!

Because the thing of the thing is.  It’s not something I can even imagine.  I can’t even fathom what life is like having slept with less than a handful of people.  And there’s no judgment on them.  And no judgment back at me.  But I will admit that it made a ton more sense now.  You see I had spent the evening advising one of them on her booty-callesque situation.  And now it all made sense.  For christsakes.  It all made sense now.  Because throughout the night I had been undecided.  I’d been trying to suss it out.  Figure out whether or not she was the kind of chick who could separate from the sex.  A girl who could have sex with a boy and have that be just it.  See…we’ve known each other less than a year.  A year in which there haven’t been any drunken nights at the bar.  I haven’t seen her work magic on the boys.  She hasn’t seen me work mine (well the magic I used to have when drunk).

And while I had an inkling that she was a cutie pie who could not handle it.  A sweetheart who would get crushed by this dude (who btw probably also didn’t know this valuable info).  Because it had never even occurred to me that this was the situation.  I’d been leaning towards go ahead.  Do it.  Sure I’d tried to arm her with advice.  What to expect from him.  Very little.  From the sex.  Better be good.  When to call.  Only late at night.  What to talk about.  Nothing really, the less chatter the better, he’s not trying to be your friend.  The dude, truthfully, was a bit of a dick.  And as we all know, I’m experienced with those.  Well technically I think it’s becoming clear I’m experience with a lot of things.  But I digress.  So when they hit me with the bombs.  When she hit me with the bomb.  I knew the right answer.  Right away.

You can’t do it.  I said.  Nope.  Not at all.  Don’t do it.  Get out.  Get out now.  Delete his number.  Out Out Out.  Because see the thing is.  I had been uncertain whether or not she could handle the situation as he was offering it when I assumed she’d slept with at least half the amount of people I had.  But 3.  Just 3.  Ever?!?!  No fucking way.  She was not the kind of girl that could handle the terms his actions made clear.  So that was that.  Case closed.  Answer given.  The Guru has spoken.

But that night got me thinking.  Were they the aberration?  Or was I?  There isn’t really a clear answer.  I’ve read the average number of guys a chick has slept with by the age of 30 is 9.  I’ve also read 11.  There was this survey by YourTango.  And the Kinsey Institute had some numbers based on lifetime partners that frankly, I just can’t believe.  Plus there’s the old adage that men lie-up and women lie-down.  Haha just realized my inadvertent pun there.  Awesome Sauce.  So basically what I’m saying is I have no idea.  But if I had to guess.  If I really had to guess.

I’d say it’s a little less sparse out here on Sluts Island.  The Gen. Pop. is a bit smaller in Slutstown, West Slutterton.  Mighty Casey doesn’t strike out in Slutsville.  But then again, I’ve heard that the chicks living there make Slutmazing neighbors.  It’s a veritable Slutopia of awesomeness.  You wish you were this slutterrific.

But no.  I’m not going to tell you my number.  Because frankly your math skills have been slipping.  And I think you could use the practice.  So get out your pencil and paper.  An abacus maybe?  Or a calculator for you cheaters.  And get ready to crunch some numbers.  So let’s see.  What’s half of Vancouver.  Plus the majority of Washington.  Plus that one guy in New Orleans.  Oh well.  I’m sure you can figure it out.  Get back to me when  you do.  And I’ll consult my list.  And see if you got the statistics right.  Though I’m going to have to check your work either way.  It’s not just about the answer.  It’s how you got there.


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

Never Leave the Party Early: Or, Why I Tell Guys I’m Dating About the Blog

[dropcap]I hate[/dropcap] to leave a party early.  Literally.  Metaphorically.  Consistently.  I hold strong to this.  I’m committed.  It’s vital.  Fucking integral.  To my happiness.  I never leave a party early.  I’d hate to have to leave a party early.  Don’t make me leave the party early.

It has something to do with opportunities.  A fear of missed opportunities I think.  You see.  I don’t believe in God.  And I don’t believe in fate or destiny.  Life just happens.  And it’s beautiful.  But that’s it.  Ebb and flow.  Tide comes in.  Tide goes out.  Life carries on.  So the fun won’t wait for me.  Won’t hold strong for me to return.  So I feel a need to be there for it.  Squeeze as much out of the lemon as I can.  Drink it all.  Laugh at it all.  Take pictures to remember it all.  Love.  Every.  Goddamn.  Minute.  Of it all.  Every moment is the time of my life.  So you can see.  How I wouldn’t want to leave a party early.  How I wouldn’t want burn a bridge between me and fun.  Even.  Just.  Hypothetical-chance-it-might-happen kind of fun.  Dating.  Is sort of like that for me.  The not wanting to leave early.

Now don’t get me wrong.  When dating goes bad.  When lusting goes sour.  When hanging out becomes not fun.  I’m ready to throw in the towel.  Cut the ripcord.  Burn that mother down.  But when it goes.  Just.  Nowhere.  Maybe to a let’s just be friends kind of place or a booty call passionate nights kind of thing.  When it goes there.  I don’t know.  I just feel.  A flaw compulsion not to end things.  So permanently.  I feel compelled to offer a tie.  A hand.  An olive branch.  To be like.  Yeah you screwed up, you lost me.  But obvs. it wasn’t a good fit.  No biggie.  Maybe you’re retarded.  Maybe I’m retarded.  Hopefully one day we’ll both find someone we can be crazy for (fix links).  And so I wish you the best.  No hard feelings.  We’re straight.

And that’s why I tell them.  About the blog.  That’s why.  I show them a piece of me.  Let me in a little.  Let them see a little.  Give them a place of contact.  A point of reference.  I won’t push them out of the party early.  I won’t leave the party early.  And we don’t have to talk to each other.  But at the very least we can still share a bag of chips.  Share the possibility of cotton candy.  Share the potential for a joke.

So it’s not about showing them what they did wrong.  Or revealing how they might have hurt me.  It’s not even really about them.  It’s just about life.  And people.  Them and me.  Us.  Divided by a bridge.  That I won’t light a match over.  Even if at first they think my words are the thing doing that for me.  This blog.  Holds strong.  Because after all.  When the dating profiles get taken down.  In a world where I still maintain some privacy over my facebook.  And major privacy over my home phone number.  And have a cell phone that is both unreliable and maintains an often changing number.  It is a link.  Keeping a presence.  Holding a place.  For contact.  For a joke.  For a smile.  For the fun at the party.  Mind the Gap.  And never leave the party early.


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

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas: A “Something” She Dated Christmas Carol


‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through house
Not a “something” was likely, def not a spouse
The sexting had happened because of the wall
In the hopes that a “something” would show me a ball
SSDated was nestled all snug in her bed
While visions of throwdown danced in her head
The Nick Name had been, so busy and sick
ThePhD though smart, seemed a bit of a dick
When over the phone arose such good chatter
The Nick Name, his cancelling appeared not to matter
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Closing the shutters and tying the sash
When what to my wondering ears should appear
But a boy indicating things should be clear
I should not worry, grown ups after all
If I wanted to talk, all I had to do was call
He thought I was awesome, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick(Name)
More rapid than eagles the talking it came
And he whistled, and panted, and called me by name
“Now, Sexy!, now Baby! just like that and more!
On, hottie! on awesome! my dirty little whore! 
Because of the window!  Because of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all” (hopes of dating me)
So onto the blog, my stories they grew
With an Xmas full of boys, and St. Nick(Name) too
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in his voice
What I thought was excitement but perhaps another choice?
As I hung up the phone and was turning around
Down the chimney, a new “something” came with a bound
He was dressed in nice clothes so far I could tell
And like an advert for axe, so good did he smell
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back (so I didn’t judge)
That he looked like a peddler just opening his pack
His smile– how it beamed!  his humor how funny!
His muscles were bulging, his demeanor how sunny!
His stance it was good, so confident and sure
And no beard on his face, his skin baby pure
He wasn’t a smoker, you could tell by his teeth
Exactly the man, I’d want to be underneath
He had a broad face and not a hint of a belly
Which made mine more special, shaking like jelly
I was chubby and plump, he had ears like an elf
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Had me ready and willing to jump into bed
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work
Took care of his baby; then turned with a jerk
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose
He sprang to his truck and revved it up loud
Driving away like a kid with an A+, so proud
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight
“Damn that chick’s hot, and man-alive is she bright.”


Something She Dated: How This Vancouver Dating Blog Got Its Name

Something She Dated
It’s not like I sit around thinking about death.  But I sure as fuck ponder life.  Especially in the last 2-3 years when it’s really all come together for me.  And it began sort of like this.  The thoughts I had.  In my head.  Just thinking.  About life:
I want you to remember me.
The words that I write.  The words that I say.  For the way my words become more simply because you read them.
I want to be remembered.
They’ll say.  They’ll say.  They’ll say.
What was it?  Something She Said Once.
That’s how they’ll remember me.
By something I said once.  They’ll remember me in a word that touched their heart.  Made them laugh.  Helped them cry.  They’ll hold me on their tongues.  Remembering me.  Tell their friend.  What was that thing?  Something She Said Once?  That one time.  That thing she said.  And then they’ll remember.  My words.
So when it came time that I started thinking about this blog.  My words.  A legacy I would want to leave.  About a journey I took once.  About the boys that I dated.  And the words I wrote about them.  Something I said once.
They’d remember me.  In the words I wrote.  By the Something’s I dated.  Something She Dated.  That’s how  you’ll remember them.  Remember me.  In the way that I made you feel.  In the way you could taste our kisses.  Feel our melted hearts.  See the heat in our embarrassed cheeks.  Get wound up when they don’t call.  Get involved when I get too involved.  Pick me up when I fall.  You’d become a part of it.  And in the end.  The legacy I’d leave.  The words I’d stamp down.  The story I’d write.  Would be this thing you remember about me.
Something I Said Once
Something I Dated.
We remember.  We remember.  We remember.
We remember.  We remember.  We remember.
Something She Said Once.
Something She Dated.