Crash Boom Bang: Disappointments Upon Disappointments

Crash Boom Bang

 

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] know that life is what you make it, that you have to decide to be happy.  I know that I’m privileged and lucky and fortunate and life really is pretty fucking beautiful for me.  But I still get sad, and things can still suck.  That being said, there can be a certain hilarity when life gets miserable all at once, when you’re piled up with disappointment after disappointment, in a very small period of time (picture a cartoon of me being buried alive by a landslide of rocks…don’t worry it’s a cartoon, I’ll survive).

And that is what happened last week.

Crash

So, I had finally started dating someone really smart.  And then he dumped me.  And I was sad.  And maybe I was sad because I had been rejected.  Or maybe I was sad because I had been rejected by someone I liked.  Or maybe I was just upset because he was smart and now that would be gone from my life.  Or maybe I was sad because of how he did it (rather than just ripping the bandaid he blamed it on academia and being busy) or maybe I was sad because I felt like I had been dumped before he’d even had a real chance to get to know me or maybe or maybe or maybe.  Who knows.  What I do know is this:  I felt sad.  I felt a huge sense of disappointment.  Like this was my one shot to hang out with someone who was seriously smart, who thought I was attractive, who wasn’t completely socially stunted, and who seemed interesting (if not hilarious).  And though my mother assures me that,

you’ll meet tons of smart people

I have to say, at 32 and in a graduate school program, WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY???

Boom

Bummed about being dumped, I went to my first fiction workshop (up to this point the classes had been a lot of discussion of published works and writing techniques).  And that’s where my Professor repeatedly called my writing “Chick Lit”, and proceeded to drone on about how men are basically all super awesome and the narrator of my story is a judgmental bitch (more on this later but the gist of it was that he couldn’t understand how a girl wouldn’t want to hear a bone-head guy discuss his favorite muscle group…all the while never asking her a single question…or how a girl could possibly be upset that an old man had lied about his age [by ten years] and shown up to a date looking like a completely different person than the images on his dating profile).  Oh, and I should mention that many people in the class agreed (so we can’t just chalk this up to some fucked up Professor).  The only conclusion I could come to was that I myself was an idiot, or I was surrounded by idiots.  Either way, I pretty much wanted to throw myself off the balcony.

One student actually said “why doesn’t your narrator stop dating if she hates it so much”

*throws self off balcony as life is hard and that is apparently the answer*

But then things seemed to be looking up.  I let someone in emotionally (okay, admittedly, it was kind of accidental, but needless to say a man called me within hours of said horrible writing workshop and I burst into tears while on the phone).  But that’s something.  You see, it was Top Secret, from just before I moved to Montreal.  He had moved to Ontario and was now coming for a visit to Montreal and had called to let me know of his plan.

At Christmas, when I came home to Vancouver, we didn’t have a ton of time but he wanted to hang out and hang out we did.  We went out for lunch.  It was fun.  It was nice.  It was real friendship shit.  But then, just as before winter break, he went right back to barely having any contact with me.  Sure we’d quick message here or there but if you want to be friends with someone and especially if you want to be more than friends with someone you have to put in that effort to get to know them, to stay in contact with them, to keep their (and yours, presumably) lust alive.  But he didn’t, we didn’t.

But here we were, visiting in his hotel room, eating pizza, watching youtube videos and getting reacquainted.  Or so I thought.  Because before I know it, he’s trying to kiss me.  Which, in theory, is fine.  But, honestly, I wasn’t really feeling it yet.  I didn’t, however, want to shut things down permanently, I just needed some time, because we had gone back to zero and I might need a couple hangouts and conversations to get back up to 60.

The next day I had to finish an already late scholarship application, and he seemed busy with work stuff, so I stayed in and said that we would meet up the next day.  Friday came, and I was running late to meet him for his show so I skipped the bus and jumped in a cab.  I made it to the show before him and when he arrived we went in.  Given that he was in the show, I was seated at a table by myself, at the front (WHY DO THEY ALWAYS MAKE ME SIT IN THE FRONT!!).

After the show we talked a bit, he basically insinuated he wanted to bone but didn’t want me to feel pressured and I finally had the balls to say, at this moment (and because of the reasons mentioned above), I just wanted to be friends and we could just see what happens.  He seemed to take it pretty well.

Because we were at the show, they told us we could go upstairs and hear the rest of the Motown show that was happening, and though I wasn’t super keen at that exact moment (I had developed an excruciating migraine) I went anyway because he wanted to go (plus I had just taken some excedrin so the headache would foreseeably dissipate).

The show turned out to be AMAZING!  I had an absolute blast.  The music, the dancers, the fact that it was free, what more could a girl ask for?!  We were joking and having fun, things seemed great.

SPOILER ALERT:  they weren’t, apparently.

Bang

After the show wrapped up, he asked so how are you getting home?

I was baffled.  Home?  It was only 11:00pm, I had assumed we’d go get some food or at least hang out and do something.  I mean shit son, I was in full hair and makeup, I’d even worn a brand new dress with uncomfortable shoes!  I said the bit about food and hanging out.  He said he wasn’t hungry and that maybe we could meet for lunch or something tomorrow.

Was he fucking serious?!?!  He expected me to wake up and do my hair and makeup for a lunch date with a dude sending me packing on a Friday night???  This dude was nuts.

I tried to convey this sentiment nicely.  I tried to convey that I thought we were friends.  After all, he’d just spent the evening telling me how awesome I was, how much more awesome it was to have a girl to hang out with and write jokes with than to have a pretty girl to just fuck, how much of a lousy lay he was to begin with…blah blah blah

(sidebar:  If I let you take a joke I wrote and then you treat me like shit, you have to take it out of your act, those are the rules)

His response:  I have enough friends

Interspersed in this dialogue was some bullshit about him being a gentleman and wanting to put me in a cab rather than have me take the bus home (which had been my original plan).  I declined and declined and declined.  However, after he said the thing about having enough friends I thought well fuck him and took the $20 he was handing me (I am a broke grad student after all, I can’t even see the poverty line let alone live above it).

Plus, I figured, as I walked for 6-10 blocks fueled by pure rage and disappointment, I would just take the bus anyway and that $20 would reimburse me for the cab I had taken earlier because I couldn’t fathom being late to his show.  I mean…

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUCK HIM

FUUUUUCCCCKKK HIM.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the end of the week of shitty things.  Almost as soon as I got on the bus (a packed bus no less, given that it was 11:30 on a Friday night), a group of fine young gentlemen proceeded to talk loudly (though mostly in French) about how fat I was and whether or not all black guys or just some black guys dig that.  The discussion included hand and arm gestures.

And before anyone gets all well don’t listen to them and they’re idiots etc.  I know this.  This conversation didn’t ffect how I feel about myself or my body (I’m lovely).  It did, however, make me feel very uncomfortable and admittedly a bit unsafe.  You see, I’m rarely scared of being raped or murdered, however, it is a very real fear that a teenage boy might spit on me or something.  Also, it made me sad because while I’m able to block out this kind of despicable behavior, I know that there will be other girls, who will experience this, younger girls, more fragile girls, girls who don’t yet know that they are entirely enough and absolutely beautiful, and for those girls I felt the hurt a bit more.  Not wanting to give these boys the attention they misguidedly and desperately sought, I put in my ear buds and pretended as if the conversation didn’t exist.

And thus ended my week.  Undateable.  Isolated and alone in a writing program that fits like a wet wool bodysuit.  Having lost all faith in the ability of men to not be the fucking worst (hyperbole, I know, some of you are fucking wonderful, even if I’m currently having a difficult time remembering this).  Spiraling into sadness.  Blargh.

So to sum up…Dumped Crash!…Writing trashed Boom!…all faith in the male species dashed Bang!  Sorry for the downer post.  Let the disappointment really sink in tho.

 

 

 

12 Guys Of SSDated: Twelve Jokers Joking

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Twelvth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Twelve Jokers Joking
Eleven Lords a-Lipping
Ten Mirrors Reflecting
Nine Bankers Banking
Eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping
Seven Locals a-Living
Six Men a-Travelling
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]here is a lot to be said for saving the best for last.  And in this case specifically, I saved the best for last because I’m greedy.  Because I wanted the biggest amount of bozos, the widest range of wit, the hugest stock of hecklers, I want the quantity of jokers to be jumbo-sized.  And that’s what I got, when I woke up this Twelfth Day of Christmas, and ran to check my stocking hung by the chimney with care of course.  Only to find it full to the brim of the funniest team of stand-ups around.  Jokers telling jokes, kidders kidding around, and myself being slain by those with the rapierest of wits er…I mean…the wittiest of rapiers.  Rapier wit?  well…you get the idea.

And see the thing of the thing is…I know so many girls and guys who say they just want someone who makes them laugh.  And while I do believe they mean it…I don’t think it’s necessarily number one on their charts.  But for me…it’s like breathing.  I need a boy to be funny if I’m going to date him.  er.  scratch that.  I need a boy to be funny if I’m going to date him as anything other than just a story for the blog about a boy I dated once.  And even then, there still has to be giggles…chuckles…witty repartee is really best.

And while admittedly I know other people want things out of life…like someone who shares their philosophies on spirituality or a love of animals.  Is there anything that can help a marriage or relationship more aptly stand the test of time than laughter.  Because I have to tell you…I never leave a party thinking my face hurts because that dude really opened my eyes about buddha or money marketing management or the perfect muffin recipe. I leave a good party complaining my face hurts because the laughter went on so strong and so long that there comes a moment when I think to myself can you break your jaw giggling?

And while there’s something to be said for being a manly man with your full beard swagger or your pretty boy good looks (hey…I’m open to the fact that other girls might be into different things)…and the way an amazing kiss can make your knees weak.  Nothing lasts longer or pushes stronger than a man who can change your entire day with a smile and a smirk and a quip filled with wit.  For me, the truth is incredibly simple.  No matter what you look like.  No matter who you are (preferably male otherwise you’ll just end up my bestie or platonic girl crush).  If you can make me laugh…you stand a damn good chance at scoring with me.  Sure enough it’s not the checkmate piece…I mean if you have a girlfriend or some other attachment…if you’re not local…if you’re gay…if you don’t find me attractive…if you’re mean…I could go on…if you’re something that detracts from your humor well certainly that’s a problem.  But nothing is more likely to overcome any other hindering factor than humor.  Case closed.

So there was really no question, for my true love, that I would eventually ask for these jokesters, these court jesters, these riddlers and reparteers (I know that’s not a word but go with me)…it was simply a matter of when.  And if logic told him anything…asking for them on the last day would have been obvious.  Because where one joke is awesome…12 jokes are amazing.

12 Guys Of SSDated: Eleven Lords a-Lipping

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Eleventh day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Eleven Lords a-Lipping
Ten Mirrors Reflecting
Nine Bankers Banking
Eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping
Seven Locals a-Living
Six Men a-Travelling
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]P[/dropcap]eople are always saying things like I just don’t get women and while on the one hand I get your point.  On the other hand it’s all quite simple.  Listen to them.  Because if you did, if you do…most of what happens you’d see coming…because they tell you it’s coming.  Even more so if they’re like me (or if they ARE me) and are into social media.  Because I speak up.  If someone asked you “what would make SSDated happy” I’m betting you could rattle off a few things including but not exclusive to the following list:

Bears
Scientists
Things that are smart
Things that are manly/aggressive
Sex
Writing
Boys
Inside Jokes
Anything and everything funny

and….

…Never to be forgotten…

…Never to be put on a back shelf…

…Always on the brain…always on the lips…

…the softest, warmest, sexiest, exchange possible…

KISSING.

So it’s no surprise that I love kissing.  And really is there anyone who doesn’t love kissing???  But even so…you have to assume a girl who has her own tongue-licking-lips as a avatar has a thing for motion of a lip lock.

Kissing.  The Art.  The Act.  The Assential (just kidding…essential but you all KNOW how I love alliteration…in fact add that to the list above).  Kissing.  K-k-k-k-issing.  And not just any kind of kissing but first kissing.  New kissing.  Sample kissing.  Just a taste kissing.  Never want to stop kissing.

And so knowing my appreciation for a little tongue tussle, you could hardly think I would go forgo a chance to have eleven Lords Lipping in my ever expanding company of men.  A gift, of course, from my true love.  And these stallions weren’t just any rough and tumble young folk but Bears of the finest quality.  Now I know sometimes people get confused when I call a certain type of boys Bears because it may appear my delicious gays got to the name first.  But the truth is this, we mean essentially the same thing.

A bear is a bear is a bear.  They’re big.  Big like tall.  Big like wide.  One or the other.  Both.  What’s the difference.  As long as they’re bigger than me…I’m set.  They’re hairy.  They might not always wear a full beard but they can damn sure grown up.  And I like that.  They never wax anything.  There’s no filing and trimming, no plucking or dying.  They go camping and build houses, they hang out at the gym or just play sports.  Maybe they’re just naturally big and aggressive and simply like the way a fullbeard feels.  Either way.  They’re men.  They’re bears.  And I love them.

So when my true love told me I’d have these here fellas to try a few first kisses on.  Well I was ecstatic.  Of course I’m sure there’d be some chatter first.  A little witty banter.  I’d pick and choose.  Kind of like an episode of the Bearelorette.  But at some point I’m certain I’d find a bear worth kissing.  And kiss him I would.

Come in slow, feel his breath on my cheek, nuzzle his beard on my face.  Press my lips into his, soft, and parting our lips to release the warmth inside.  Go slow, pull back, go slow, pull back…tease tease tease.  Take my tongue and glide across the bottom of his upper lip, taste how bad he wants me.  Warm.  Wet.  Ready.  Kissing.  For now.  Just Kissing.

12 Guys Of SSDated: Ten Mirrors Reflecting

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Tenth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Ten Mirrors Reflecting
Nine Bankers Banking
Eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping
Seven Locals a-Living
Six Men a-Travelling
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]here’s that old saying that opposites attract.  And on the one hand I completely agree.  After all who teaches you more than someone who knows a complete separate set of facts, operates within an entirely different knowledge base.  But even so…when it comes to the big issues.  I’m not so certain.  When it comes to politics and religion, how one handles money and the way they like to clean house, notions of social protocol and what they like to do on Friday nights…these things…these are things I think should likely be similar if it’s going to work out.

And I really believe that.  There’s something to be said for a TV soulmate.  Because who wants to spend the next forty years watching different shows in different rooms?  And the same goes for music.  And movies.  And food.  And vacation spot dreams.  And I’m not saying that you’d want to stagnate.  But half of the fun of somebody who has incredibly similar tastes to you is that when they discover something new and amazing or you do…the immediate reaction is to share it with the other.  Thus causing some sort of sexy-high-five scenario that ends in both laughter and passionate sex.  Who knew misfits had such potential?  Or the league?  Just sayin’.  Powerful.

And so you can just imagine my glee when I stumbled upon a gift of Ten glorious men, in the living room casually (though not slovenly mind you) sprawled out on the couch.  And then they looked at me…and I looked at them…we all looked at the clock…prime-time…and one of them took the channel changer and put on a program.  Who’s up for a little Vampire Diaries??? he asked.  And I practically melted.

And to be clear I know Vampires are ridiculous.  And teenage show about them even worse.  But fuck you! because I love them and any man who can appreciate that is A-okay with me.  Plus what all you men need to realize…those that aren’t already perfect mirror images of me and my taste…is that Vampire shows have done more for getting you laid than you possibly ever could.  Nothing screams take me in your arms and fuck me senseless like an 800 year old vampire with bitingly witty (see what I did there??) remarks*

*obviously these lines are not written by the actor nor is the actor actually a vampire…but this is make-believe TV and dammit stop asking questions because after an hour of Vampire show any girl willing to watch it will be riled up more than you after a night of strippers and viagra.

After the show was over, we watched a few downloaded episodes of misfits and the league.  The rest of the night the parts of it that were PG enough to tell you about here were spent laughing and reenacting our favorite punch lines.  Because the only thing better than seeing/hearing something hilarious on TV…is letting it live on as an endless inside joke forever.  And there’s nothing that I or any other girl with any sense loves love more than a night of laughter followed by some harmless roleplaying and deliciously steamy and sweaty sex.  Real talk.

12 Guys Of SSDated: Nine Bankers Banking

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Ninth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Nine Bankers Banking
Eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping
Seven Locals a-Living
Six Men a-Travelling
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]ometimes I like to think that the world is full of unicorns.  And then I turn on the news.  Or watch Criminal Minds.  Or any of the other 8 lawyer-FBI-crime shows that I love and somehow the world just became a drastically more distraught place.  And though I know the latter is the truer of these two perspectives…there’s something to be said for finding the unicorn within the investment banker.  Life is about the silver lining.  Especially for the atheists, and Buddhists who aren’t waiting for anything other than the sweet release of death.  And so that’s how I live life, am living life, on this very special ninth day of Christmas…full of logic and science and looking for the rainbow and passion inside everything.  Or at least that’s what I claim on my dating profile.  This is where I casually slip in yet another personal detail just so you guys reading really get a chance to know me, no holds barred.

I like to think I’m funny. But let’s be honest. I also like to think I live in a world where people are only ever nice to each other and everything is made of rainbows and cotton candy and endless empathy. So I think we can safely assume my humor might be relative and my confidence skewed. Either way I’m excellent at recognizing the hilarity in others so at the very least you can expect that I would bring some youtube gems into your life.

And the truth is, as much as I wrote this to hopefully encite at least a smile if not a chuckle (the full laughter is what the video is for)…this little paragraph really does sum me up quite nicely.  I’m optimistic enough to wish the world spotless and realistic enough that when I find out the place is as dirty as a coal miner’s ear…not to let it break my heart…because even in a coal dusted lobe can be found something amazing.

But here’s the real point of this random diatribe.  On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…exactly what I fucking asked for…Nine Bankers Banking.  Because let’s be honest.

While my lumberjack is building roaring fires and caressing my delicate skin with flannel after having tousled with his manly beard.
And my Two Shirtless Chefs have cooked us a low-fat-low-cal-low-carb-miraculously-still-good-tasting-but-we-all-know-we’re-just-eating-air-feast.
And my Three Best Friends have been the rock steadying my shaky legs in moments of crisis and emotional turmoil or more likely spending the day giggling at inside jokes and eating girl guide cookies.
And my Four Brooding Artists have struggled and worked, inspired and provoked and painted me naked.
And my Five Scientists have considered cold fusion and string theory, examined theories of evolution and dissected Freud (who still has immense value regardless of disprove ideologies).
And my Six Men a-Travelling have ridden trains, and planes, and horses, and me.
And my Seven Locals a-Living have been around and available for virtually anything that can be done within a 30 mile radius or a 45 minute time distance.
And my Eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping have devised numerous plans, implementable plans, which will in their own small way, save the world…if only just a little bit.

While all that is going on…Somebody needs to be making so dough to pay for it all.  Life ain’t cheap and neither is a house full of men.  Even if they were to share bunk-beds like pre-teen boys, or summer camp boys, or military boys…mmmm…military boys…wait.  what.  Well you get the idea…even if costs were cut and thrifts were thrifty…there’d still be a whole lot of chapter 7 and in the red happening without somebody out there working their asses off to keep us rolling in the gold coins and quote-unquote making it rain.

So that’s why I asked my true love for them…and thus he delivered.  Because we all serve a purpose and they’re just one big part of my Merry-Christmas-fantasy-gang.  Me…and my Nine Bankers Banking.  Gettin’ Bank, son.

12 Guys Of SSDated: Eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Eighth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping
Seven Locals a-Living
Six Men a-Travelling
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he thing of the thing is…if I’m going to change the world.  I’m probably going to need some help.  Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that jazz.  And that’s where today’s gift comes in.  Well.  Actually.  They came in while I was busy at the dining room table trying to come up with…ya know…my master plan…to solve all the world’s problems.  Admittedly I was still in the pondering-the-sheer-volume-and-size-of-the-epic-situation…perhaps I’d be better off thinking smaller.  Like fundraising for an afterschool program.  But I digress.

There they were, door swinging open, eight tall glasses of water strutting towards me, hands held open and relaxed, shirt-sleeves rolled up, ready to get to work.  A few were lawyers, a few politicians, there was an engineer or two and even a Philosophy professor.  We were a dream team ready to conquer the world.  And by that I mean we smoked some weed, sat around eating junk food and talked about some…ya know…stuff we brainstormed ideas and made organized charts and graphs and plans of actions.

The truth is there’s no one answer.  Or even easy endless answers.  The world’s got some fucking problems yo.  But it’s also amazing and you have to start somewhere.  And where I would start???  With kids.  Health programs, self esteem programs, literacy programs, science programs…and perhaps most important…WELL ROUNDED sex education programs and what-being-a-parent-really-means programs…so that at some point our society could really remove itself from the 16-and-pregnant mentality.

I promise to be open to their suggestions though.  A life together…even a dream one…would never be about my agenda alone.  I can listen and discuss, be open and compromising.  Plus why surround yourself with brilliant and caring minds if you’re not going to utilize them?  But the key thing is they’re here.  Rounding out the otherwise amazing team of men.  Each with their own abilities and skills, talents and achievements.  Here, in my house.  In my bed.  In my ridiculously delightful Christmas fantasy dreamland.

And speaking of fantasy…if you could only see them in action.  Leaning over conference dining room tables, fists pounding in heated debates.  Button, unbutton, button.  Powerful men, Politicians and Lawyers, in suit jackets fit for Armani, or Gucci or the law firm of Cadwalader, Wickersham and Taft discussing strategy by the water cooler kitchen sink.  Professors and Engineers in jeans and sandals presenting options and consulting sources in conference room B on the living room coffee table.  And then me.  At the helm.  Culling them all together.  Keep everyone honest, and focused, so that our life played like an episode of national geographic rather than like any of the many illicit scandals on The Good Wife (obvs. my new favorite TV show).

And that’s really it.  The arrival of idea men and make-it-happen men and find-the-best-solution men and we-love-this-world-and-all-we-want-to-do-are-good-things-for-it men.  On the eighth day of Christmas, my one -true-love man gave to me…eight Samaritans a-Philanthroping and I’ll be making every possible use out of our time together.  Saving the world…one blog post at a time.

12 Guys Of SSDated: Seven Locals a-Living

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Seventh day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Seven Locals a-Living
Six Men a-Travelling
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]I[/dropcap]know what you’re thinking.  *correction*  I think I know what you’re thinking.  Here it is, a total fantasy-Christmas-Santa-Clause-true-love-gifting-no-holds-barred-ask-for-everything-I-want situation…and I’ve got my one true love bringing me simply…seven men…who live…er…um…locally.  And the answer is You’re damn right I am!!

You see I’ve only had one real relationship in my life.  Sure I had the occasional boyfriend and dated some here and some there.  But there’s only ever been one, that was serious, that was love, that was MegaLove.  And as life would have it we spent 6 years commuting back and forth between Vancouver (the one in BC, Canada) and Seattle.  Which means that every single time we hung out it involved packing a suitcase, a toiletries bag, makeup and hair products, casual outfits (in case we were just going to stay in and watch movies and bang like bunnies) and fancy outfits (in case we were going out to dinner, or a club, etc.)

And at first it all seems so lovely, like taking a vacation every other weekend.  Packing a bag, staying somewhere not your own.  And in the beginning even more so because I was 22 and living with my parents while going to school so a lot of his visits were actually weekends holed up in Vancouver hotels.  At first, it was luxury.  At first it was seductive.  At first it was amazing and private and intimate and special and hotel sex and always eating out and feeding each other room service pancakes in sheets we’d never have to change.

But then, well then it just gets exhausting.  I’m fairly certain our love is the reason for climate change.  And somehow packing a bag just isn’t fun anymore and dammit if you forget your hairbrush one more time you’ll fucking scream!!!  And you just want it all to be easier.  Sometimes, you just don’t want to have to choose between seeing your boyfriend for another 2 weeks or going to your friend’s birthday party.

And that’s why I want them.  My seven locals just living…here…in Vancouver…doing…local Vancouver things.  I want to be able to call someone I’m dating on a wednesday afternoon and say hey…want to get italian for dinner?  and then go over…and eat Italian.  No bag packing.  No time scheduling.  Just showing up.  For a meal.  And some amazing sex, I’m guessing.  And then…then…then comes the shocker…the thing people take for granted…the amazingly pressureless scenario of…simply going home after.

Sure there’d be cuddles.  And probably some post-coital makeout.  Perhaps eat a sandwich.  Maybe even play some Mario Kart.  But there’d be no pressure.  I wouldn’t have to worry about whether I’d brought my glasses and a spare pair of contacts…or eye makeup remover…or a toothbrush…or the patience to not sleep because I’m not used to this new man in my bed and sometimes he fucking snores and dammit if I don’t have important shit to study for tomorrow and fucking hell mamma needs her sleep.

And I know it sounds like I’m taking the romance out of it.  But the thing of the thing is.  I’ve had romance.  I’ve got romance.  And sometimes love just isn’t enough.  And maybe it’s just who I am.  And how I like not simply my independence but my freedom and my alone time.  But sometimes a girl just likes to hang out with a boy and then go home.  Case closed.  But you can’t do that when he lives a couple hundred miles away.

And so I asked…and received…on this very special 7th day of Christmas…a gift…from my one true love of Seven Local Men a-Living…and it’s everything I could ask for.  Now could someone please pass the spaghetti?

12 Guys Of SSDated: Six Men a-Travelling

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Sixth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Six Men A-Travelling
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] thought it was a universal thing.  I mean who doesn’t want to explore the entire globe, see every single inch of this whole sphere we call earth?  But apparently I was wrong.  There are actual real live people, for whom this isn’t such a big deal.  And many of them have been “somethings”.  And the thing is, not having that desire to travel, that need to see other places and explore the world, that wanderlust…that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  But it’s not a me thing either.

So if I were to ever settle down with just one man…or…12…or…78 (is that the right math for the final tally that we can all see coming for the 12 Guys Of SSDated?)…well you get the idea…so if I was to settle down with a him or a them….well…he/they damn well better be a frequent flyer mile collector because I’m not even close.  Not even half way there.  I have a whole world left to explore.

It’ll be a Tuesday, late in March, in a fantasy a year from now and I’ll open the top drawer in my desk and reach for my passport.  I’ll call out do you have yours? and a chorus of six will return an excited yessss!  The house will be a-buzz with packing and planning and who’s bringing the sunscreen? and I’ve got the tickets! and don’t forget to bring the maps.  Because you see thing of the thing is…On The Sixth Day of Christmas my true love gave to me…Six men a-travelling and I plan to take full advantage of our time together.

And we’ll fly off to Russia where we’ll meet Czars drinking vodka and Czarinas in fur hats.  We’ll hop a train on the trans-siberian railway and somehow make our way over to China.  There’ll be jaunts to Japan and vacations in Vienna, we’ll say things like we’re just going so summer in South Africa and winter in Wyoming, I’ll finally get to see Iceland and talk to some polar bears in the arctic.  And to be honest I might just stop back in on New Orleans and reclaim the love of a city that wasn’t mine to love but I did anyway, and go to jazzfest (the only place I’ve yet to ever eat Crawfish Monica).  We would be limitless.  Me and the boys.  Me and the men.  Partners in travel.  Adventurers in love.  Equals in Excitement.

And I have to say that’s half the point.  It’s not just that I want to sit in cafes in Paris and write about love.  Or get caricatures on Paradise Island in Disneyworld.  It’s that I want to do these things with someone who thinks they’re as amazing as I do.  Puerto Rico is pretty awesome in theory, but when you’re standing in the rainforest having chosen not to get that plastic poncho and the downpour begins and you don’t bother to take cover under the little huts built for just this purpose, you’ll find yourself experiencing a whole other level of amazing.  And if the other person just thinks well ain’t that grand with a shrug and picture…it’s just no the same as one who gets it.  One who laughs with unadulterated glee from beneath their poncho as you get soaked to the bone in rain that feels like you’re six years old and there just simply isn’t a trouble in the world with your problems being soothed away in a momentary storm that feels as warm and gentle as bath water.  And then you embrace and carry along on your walk with a nature guide who’s more excited about science and the biology of the forest life than you ever thought anyone could be.  And you and your travel partner embrace, exchange deliciously warm and wet kisses, your hair and face still dripping…and the excitement is palpable.  The world is yours and you’re going to take it.  One, or Seven (Them + Me), wanderlusters at a time.

12 Guys Of SSDated: Five Scientists

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the Fifth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Five Scientists
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]I[/dropcap] can hear them.  Busy working in the basement.  There are beakers and formulas and I’m fairly certain I saw someone working to erect a functioning monster.  Boards line the walls with mathematical equations that would stump Good Will Hunting, or at the very least Matt Damon.  And throughout the room I see them.  This gift of science and reason and logic and a way to figure things out, understand the world, the universe, or even just what causes that damn mento to be such a spazz when it comes to cola beverages.  The room pulses with brain activity and somehow I feel brighter just being in their presence.

My dream team.  My capability consortium.  My intelligence institute.  My genius guild.

It takes a little while.  At first I’m nervous and don’t want to be a bother.  But then I get over it.  Because after all who knows how long they’ll stay.  And it’s not everyday that a girl finds herself able to glance over the shoulders of some of  the world’s greatest minds.  And so I walked down those creaking stairs into the basement, carrying a tray of cookies and chocolate milk Scientists like chocolate milk right??  Like that’s a thing, that they always say they like right?!?!  And so I gave them their chocolate milk.  And they let me ask questions.  Propose thoughts and ideas.  Or even just be present.  To soak it all up.  For a moment to be in the presence of greatness.

And you see, the thing of the thing is, it’s not just about science.  It’s not only that I find chemistry compelling and biology can baffle, that something about physics is fascinating or that psychology scintillating.  It’s about how scientists think.  In a discussion, a scientists utilizes facts.  If a term is unclear, he doesn’t carry on with the argument as if all would naturally agree with him.  He regresses back, pushes for an earlier start, defines terms and parameters, gives everything a logic and a reason.  A scientist, knows how to have a discussion, how to figure something out, how to discover just exactly how they came to that conclusion.

Because the truth is, it’s not always about the answer with me.  The same way it’s not always about sex.  Sometimes you just want to make out for awhile and talk things through.  Have an incredibly smart person explain string theory in a way you can understand it.  Or even just have a discussion about marriage.  Or casual sex.  A discussion where both sides are entertained and arguments are well thought out and thoroughly substantiated.  Or what about Bonobo apes.  Or ice cream sundaes.  Or the political climate Mexico and Southern American countries would be affected by the legalization of drugs.  You see the important thing isn’t the topic.  It’s find a man to have a conversation with.  One that doesn’t start or end with What dooin? or What are you wearing?  And yet still end up hot and sweaty, wrapped in sheets of satisfaction, stimulated in just about every way possible.

That’s what my one true love gave to me.  Five Scientists.  The gift of intelligent conversation.  The close and intimate contact with a boy named logic and a private dark room where I could get intimate with him.

12 Days Of SSDated: Four Brooding Artists

Dating

 

[one_half last=”no”][colored_box color=”red”]On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love gave to me
Four Brooding Artists
Three Best Friends
Two Shirtless Chefs
And a Lumberjack sawing down a tree[/colored_box][/one_half]

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]ometimes it happens on the drive home.  From anywhere.  From everywhere.  When the music pumps hard and fast.  When the song belts proud and clear.  When the words just appear between my ears.  Fizzy and swirling.  Jagged.  Brisk.  And I’m entirely endebted to the this world for the moments when I have something worth saying in a way that makes it worth looking past every insecurity to say it.  Loud.  Here.  Now.  For you.

Sometimes it happens on Sunday mornings.  Meh.  Who am I kidding?  On Sunday afternoons when the curl of the party the night before still lingers upon my hair and I’ve barely considered rolling over let alone departing my warm sheets.  Those moments when I spring up because the poem composed in my head is too fragile in its infancy to not require pen to hit paper.  When the words are like babies who cry out for breakfast and for mom and someone to play with.

Sometimes it happens during a movie.  In the darkness of a theatre.  Or my dorm room with all the lights off.  An image.  A screenplay.  A feeling.  Are drawn out in front of me in magnificent motion.  And sometimes I can see it in a painting.  Or your eyes.  Or his kiss.  Or the way they dance.  Or the way she smiles, eating 99 cent pizza on a bright yet cold winter afternoon.

And sometimes it’s in their words.  Other writers.  Poets.  Novelists.  Comedians.  Journalists.  Words words words he says and it’s like Shakespeare sees to the very pin-prick of the second where I make sense.  And that’s how I knew it would be magic.  When this morning, I opened the door, and found them standing there.

Four Brooding Artists.  From my one true love of course.  Four muses, just for me.  To love.  To cherish.  To be amused by.  And to be fair and completely honest they weren’t perfect.  Far from it.  But who likes perfection.  I myself am a lover of the ordinary.  For in the average there is much beauty.  Or perhaps in the Brooding Artist is the ability to turn the precisely average into infite excesses of the heart and soul.

And it may have even been their flaws that added a special glow to them.  As if they had been frosted in a lemon glaze of accidental imperfections and exact right amount of errors.  One of them was a novelist.  His hair tucked behind his ears and he could only work after passionate sex.  Obviously I helped the poor fellow out.  I mean, I clearly support the arts.  Another was a musician.  He liked to play the drums…in the nude.  No problem here.  The third was a painter.  Who wanted to sketch me naked.  And again swaddled in the softest warmest of quilts.  And the forth was a poet.  Sometimes he was filled with rage…throwing glasses and smashing plates.  Other times it was extreme sadness and I had to do my best to resist his pull.  But when he wrote.  When he put words to paper.  It lit me on fire.  He lit me on fire.  And though there was kissing and sex and laughter and tears and all the amazing things that life has to offer.

What he gave me.  What they all gave me. What was most important.  What I ached for.  What they delivered.  Was inspiration.