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.

I Want to Date You Like Rainbows

I want to date you like rainbows


[dropcap]Y[/dropcap]  ou look…Like a friend I once knew.  Like a reason to pause the movie.  Like a reason to eat all my vegetables so that I can live forever just to know you a little bit longer.  You look like a woman I’d like to get to know.  Like a ship lost at sea.  Like a port in the storm, but not just any port, a safe haven, a harbor.  Like a dream I had once, in the summer, on a sunny day, when I fell asleep watching the clouds while the bees sung me to sleep and it felt like you were beside me, even though I didn’t yet know you.  You look like a reason I would get out of bed, even if it was early, on Saturday mornings, just to make you coffee.  Like a heart I’d make a cocoon around with the warmest quilt on a Sunday in the winter.  You look like someone I want to kiss forever or at least until my heart stops chugging like a steam engine or a college freshman.  I want to know what the voices in your head are saying about me.  I want to text you back immediately and make plans well in advance so that you can plan your schedule.

I want to date you like rainbows.  I want to explain magic tricks to you.  I want you to practice your spoken word in front of me.  I want to make your nerves into cotton candy so that with every breath they shrink and shrink and shrink and then I swallow them whole.  I want to lick the summer rain off your skin because I am a desert by your side.  I want to rush things with you just so that you’ll tell me that slow and steady wins the race.  I want you to draw a picture of a turtle to remind me.  I want to stock your fridge.  I want you to have everything within arms reach, except me, I only need a hand.  I want to hold your hand until you don’t want to squirm away anymore.  I want to call you and say it’s me and have you know that it’s me.  I want you to leave long drawn out messages on my voicemail.  I want you to call more times than you think you should.  I want you to call and text and check in more than you need to, just to make sure I’m still interested because I know you have to, and I will still be, interested, every time you call.  I’ll still be right here, playing your messages over and over again while I fall asleep.  I want to hear your voice.  You can never call too much.  I want you to embarass yourself in front of me just so I can tell you that it doesn’t matter.  I am yours.

I want to love you like you love swimming.  I want to feed you lucky charms in the afternoon when all your work is done.  I want to write love poems on your back in suntan lotion but not tell you so that my love becomes a part of you and everyone will know that you’re mine and that you’re loved more than regular words can convey.  I want to play super mario and give you all the gold coins I collect.  I want to call you yoshi and watch you stick out your tongue and laugh and then I want to shove cake in there and kiss you till we’re both covered in icing.  I want to lie in bed with you, sweaty and in love, satisfied and on fire, and then I’ll turn to you and say let’s do weird stuff and listen to your laughter for hours.  I want to wear our inside jokes like pajamas.  I want to sleep with your sense of humor.

I want to order the ‘date-night’ special with you.  I want a lifetime of splitting appetizers, even if we have to order the poutine with the gravy on the side because I don’t eat red meat.  I would take all my dressings on the side for you.  I want to give you a bite of everything even though you tell me not to because it’s making you fat.  I want to make you fat just so we can go to the gym and I can watch you sweat and work it all off.  I want to be your champion and I’m going to make you do three more reps come on come on come on you got it just so I can kiss your juicy lips right after.  I want to get you gatorade when I’ve pushed too hard.  I promise to rub your muscles when we get home.

I want to jump over a broom with you.  I want to call you my own, my team, my better half, my other half, my one and a half.  I want to half you forever.  See what I did there?  I know you like those kinds of puns.  See?  Do you see?  Because I see you, like really see you.  I want to go to parties and re-enact funny youtube videos we’ve watched together.  I want to have witty repartee with you.  I want to have a gravitational pull with you, our smiles, our jokes, our love, pulling people in.  I want to watch who you become.  I want a promise, written in cake and tradition.

I want to have milk chocolate babies with you.  You fell in love the day I said you would make an amazing mom.  I’ve fallen in love every day since.  I will protect you.  I will protect our babies.  It will be okay.  I can see the future and it’s going to all work out, but not because I can see it.  Because you are good and I am good and we will do good things.  We will make this world a place where good things matter.  You always said you wanted to change the world, you wanted a man who wanted to change the world.  And now I’m doing that.  In a small way.  In a minuscule way, when you think about how big the world is.  But I’m trying.  I’m doing things.  For our kids that don’t exist yet.  I’m loving the fuck out of this world so that you can let a sigh out and relax every once and awhile…it’s not all on your shoulders.

You’re still the woman I see myself ending up with, and having babies that smile bigger than the sun with.


Or at least that’s what I hear.  When he says the words I love you.

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

I Eat Grapefruits To Save You

Shopping List
I eat grapefruits to save you, late at night
Rabid, in the moment your words, hard and fast
Become a language, I no longer understand
Push it hard into me, force a peeling of my dream
That vision squeezed tight, in hands too rough to hold
My heart, a madlib, and you write anything, something
Anything, Just so you won’t miss this space, fill me up
With minutes, minute moments, the flutter of a lash
When I laughed and you didn’t.  I eat, eat, eat
Grapefruits, in the middle of the night, to save you
Pour my pain into pulp, rip you into sections,
Time you out into pieces, digestible moments
Bearable seconds, of all the days I hate you.
All the years, that I’ve hated you, so much
That I eat grapefruits, in the middle of the night,
Just to save you.
I plot plans, hatch seeds, grope and peel apart
My own skin, because I found it here, found me
Here, because I let it get to here.
Sitting on the kitchen floor, juice runs away
From your chatter, putting me to sleep, by the way,
You just don’t get my jokes.
I stuff citrus down my throat so I won’t say the things,
That make me hate you, offer up the reasons why I despise,
Eating grapefruits late at night like an arangautang
In the middle of the kitchen, the middle of the this life
The middle of however the fuck we got here.
I choke on a seed for a second like heaven,
Only I’m an atheist and this is bullshit.  I don’t even like
Grapefruit.  They’re bitter, the skin is too thick and
Peeling them makes my hands feel funny.
Last Thursday you came downstairs to look for me,
But instead of a shirt made see-through by sloppy juice
I ate the words I love you.  Swallowed hard and crawled
Across the paper.
Pick Up:  Milk, eggs, Grapefruit

Nothing Like Work.

Nothing Like Work

[dropcap]I want[/dropcap] to just stand there kissing you forever.  Or at least until you no longer look like sex and happiness.  You break us apart only for a second.  Offer whispers cross cheeks fall into my ears…something about how do you want me…to touch you?  And so I tell you.  Soft and slow.  Work me up.  Work me down.  Work me over.  Work me out.  And you say this is nothing like work.  And you’ve sold me.  Sold like houses without escrow.  Houses bought with cash.  Houses bought with sweat.  You sold me without a sign.  Your hand.  Big like safety and potential.  Big like control and freedom.  Your hand that pulses with testosterone holds mine like baby fingers.  Excited, clasping, soft and you push it behind me.  Palm across the back pocket of my jeans and you manage to hold my ass and my hand at the same time.  Like popcorn snacks salty and sweet you make butter taste like chocolate and honey taste like lemons.  Everything you do sweeps me off my feet but your hand holds strong to support me.  Clings without crushing.  Grasps without breaking.  You stand there and you’ve got me.  Like really got me.  Another hand pulls me closer arm up and through mine round the back like a dance step and you twirl me.  We don’t move but my head is spinning butterflies swirling and you twirl me.  Kiss me again you say like somehow my kisses are favors.  Like you’re the luckiest boy in the world to be breathing upon my soft lips that you swear taste like cotton candy though you want to eat me like steak.  You make meat talk sexy.  You woo me with jokes.  You make laughter burn.  Hotter than Vegas.  You light me up like fireworks and hotel room sex in the middle of the night and then later again that night and than again in the morning just before the sun rises.  And afterwards.  You play with my hair just long enough to keep me awake.  Watch it arrive through our window.  Because you just knew how it would flicker off my eyes and spread apart my heart.  Like somehow my rise, my sway, my lift was all you needed to feel a beat in your chest.  You swoon for me.  I’m man enough to say swoon you tell me.  And as I watch the hair on your chest curl like wood shavings from a carpenter’s plane I wholeheartedly believe you.  You rock me.  Like world championship fights.  Like quotes repeated 50 years later.  Sting like a bee.  And you move me.  Push me pull me make me want to break into two just so you could put me back together again.  Glue me with your hopes, ply me with your dreams and smoosh us together with questions that have answers we can only get to if we work together.  Nothing like work you say again and kiss me.  Those lips you say and I blush because I can’t explain what you mean but I know that you mean it.  Absorb you in their softness cool you in their breeze and then burn you up whole.  You pull back again.  Only for a second but this time you don’t say anything.  I hear everything.  In your panting.  In your smile.  In the way you look into my eyes with the kind of confident hope that swears the blue pools might just save you if you let them but you don’t need it.  Like somehow your eyes and your grasp give me the freedom to love you as much or as little as I need and that exact amount will be all you ever wanted.  Like our love would never be a burden I would buckle under.  Like every moment would be like this one.  This very moment.  Where your kisses only ever give more.  More more more.  And Nothing feels like work.

Love Is: My House On Faculty Row


[dropcap]People[/dropcap] have been asking me a lot lately.  If Mega Love proposed.  Right now.  Would I say yes?  And the answer is no.  Not a chance.  No hesitation.  Uh-uh.  Nope.  Nope.  *head shake*   No.  Because the thing is.  I don’t want a boyfriend.  I definitely don’t want a husband.  Right now.  I just want fun.  Breezy.  Fun.

Dating is fun right now.  Exciting and nerve-racking.  Like sour candy.  Caught in your cheeks.  Delicious.  Torture.  Bliss.  It’s up.  It’s down.  It’s novel and I’m learning.  Learning about myself.  About boys.  About other people and their lives.  By comparison to mine.  From their vantage point looking in.  From my vantage point looking out.  It’s kind of like shopping.  Can I help you, Miss?  No thanks, I’m just browsing.  And right now.  This very moment.  I wouldn’t trade it for the world.  Because honestly.  I’m having the time of my life.  I’m being honest.  And selfish.  And I’m totally okay with that.

Being selfish I mean.  Because I don’t want to think about anyone else.  Have to look after anyone else.  Have to worry about anyone else.  Because for the first time in 16 years.  I feel good.  I mean really really good.  Like I’m finally not broken anymore.  Like after 16 years of a sadness that shakes you.  Takes your breath away.  Taints everything.  Poisons everything.  Is everywhere and in everything.  Suck.  Suck.  Sucking every last drop of hope and joy out of you.  It finally ends.  And now.  I get to be happy.  I mean really happy.

So you can understand can’t you?  How I wouldn’t want to risk it.  Risk this happiness.  On something.  On someone.  I mean sure.  In the future.  Possibly.  But not right now.  Not when it’s all still so fresh.  So new.  Still such totally uncharted waters.  And I’m not hiding from love or anything.  I’ve got tons of love surrounding me right now.  An amazing family.  Wonderful friends.  Life is beautiful.  And one day.  One day.  I’ll consider it.  Consider a future of team effort.

But right now I think.  I feel.  Like it’s quite likely I won’t ever want to get married.  Won’t ever want to have babies.  Sure.  The idea of baking up some little minions that are part me and part someone I love.  That sounds amazing.  Creating a life.  Growing something inside my belly.  Sure that’d be cool.  Really cool though.  Would be raising them.  Raising them how I want.  Teaching them things.  Giving them room to learn how to learn.  Showing them the world.  Watching them grow their dreams.  Loving them.  Helping them.  Growing old with them.  But that’s a lot of responsbility.  And I don’t even like the idea of having a pet.

Because in the life I picture for myself.  I live in some fancy professor housing.  On a university campus.  Of which I’m sure only exists in movies I watched as a child.  But nonetheless.  I’m living there.  And my life is gorgeous with Academia.  And writing.  Travel and friends.  Love.  Love.  Love.  I do what I want.  When I want.  And then I play with other people’s kids.  And get to go home when I’m done.  Quirky Auntie SSD.  She always tells the best stories.  And has the best snacks.  Took me for the morning after pill when I couldn’t tell my mom.  Listened when my dad and I were fighting.  Told me how he was just looking out for me.  Talks about equality and kindness.  Talks about doing the right thing and figuring out what that is for myself.  She believes me when I say I’m going to change the world.  Says she’ll help me.  Says she’ll always be there for me.  She makes me feel loved.  And safe.  Like the world will be okay for me.  Because she’s out there.  Waiting for me.

But even then.  I think about love.  And how one day.  That might be something I really crave.  Really desire.  Because I can imagine it feels good.  For someone to know you.  To really know someone.

Their favorite constellation.
The salad dressing they use on Sundays
The way your head feels resting in their hands
The shape of their ice cubes
The shape of their ice cubes
One day.  I’ll want to know someone.  So well.  That I know the shape of his ice cubes.

But not today.  Because today.  There are 3 weeks left till school starts back up.  And I know what my dreams are.  And falling in love.  And knowing someone.  Aren’t on that list.  Studying.  Learning.  Taking care of myself.  Getting good grades.  Like really good grades.  Higher than ever before.  Slaying the GRE.  Getting into Grad School.  Those are my dreams.  Those are my cake.  And the rest.  The rest is just icing.

A Mix Tape Kind of Love (Broke My Heart as a Favor)

[dropcap]Sometimes[/dropcap] a story.  Is just a story.  A moment that takes up more than a couple of moments.  In a life.  But it’s worth mentioning.  It has value.  It happened in history.  And it needs to be recorded.  With words.  Or in music.  In a photograph.  In a smile.  A stain on a shirt.  A keepsake.  Sometimes.  Things.  Are just as they are.  Special.  Beautiful.  Broken.  But worth it.  So tell me.  So tell me.  Take my hand.  And I’ll tell you.  About the time I went to see Mega Love.  The love of my life.  Broke my heart as a favor.  Changed me.  Changed me.  Set me free to change myself.  That kind of love.  That keeps you together.  For all the right loving reasons.  When none of the practical ones are there.  He loved me.  I loved him.  We were in love.  And now we’re not.  Well.  I can’t say for certain.  About him.  But I’m not.  I know about that phrase.  I love you, but I’m not IN love with you.  That used to sound so retarded.  But I get it now.  I get it now.  I get it…

But then.  But wait.  So then.  What.  Like, are we doing?  Meeting up in a hotel room.  And I can’t really tell you.  Because I don’t really know.  But it feels good.  And we both seem to have smiles on our faces.  And we both seem to be okay with how things are.  Things are good.  But things are also heavily coated in white lies by omission.  Because he doesn’t know I’m dating.  He doesn’t know I’m writing about it.  He doesn’t know.  And for all I don’t know.  He could be doing the same.  And I think we’re both okay with that.  At this moment.  This moment in time.  This moment in our story.  This very moment.

So just because I’m a sucker for details.  For perfection and precision.  Because even if I don’t post the second I get home from a date.  I like to keep things in order.  A relatistic representation of what my life is like.  Of what is actually happening.  And I find it fucking hard to keep track.  Of the order.  And I’m the one living it.  So I can’t even imagine.  How difficult it must be for you guys.  So here’s a quick rundown of what’s been happening.

Saturday – Hotel with Mega Love
Tuesday – 3rd Date with Trucker Joe
Friday – 1st Date with Lindsay’s Law
Tuesday – 4th Date with Trucker Joe
Friday – Seattle with Mega Love (and this is where we are right now)

I email Mega Love the weekend before I expect to be in Seattle.  I know we hinted at only seeing each other once every six months but also know we said we would tell each other when either one of us is in town.  So this is me.  Telling you.  I’ll be in town.  I’m coming down to shop on Friday.  So just wondering if you wanted to meet up at all.  He did.  Want to meet up that is.  Definitely.

So on Friday.  I drive down.  And before I even hit Tulalip.  Fucking red and blue lights.  Flashing all over my ass.  But I think.  Stay calm.  You were speeding afterall.  This IS your fault.  Just be nice.  Accept the ticket.  Suck it up.  And carry on.  That is.  Until I saw the ticket.  And I freaked out.  When I saw the amount 350.  Only wait.  That’s the officer’s number.  Whew!  But then I see it.  I see the fucking amount they expect me to pay.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

US $550

Like are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!?!  $225 I’d understand.  $250 I’d get.  But $550?  Don’t they know there’s a fucking recession on?!?!  Is this even legal (btw according to the legislature [yes I’m that big of a geek] it’s not, the max is $250 but looks like I’ll have to show up for this…motherfucker).  I mean fuck.  $550.  That’s a trip to Vegas.  Here I am not buying new clothes all summer long…sweating it out in long ass jeans that now fall off my ass and shirts that look like parachutes…just to save money till now.  And I’ve just blown way over my budget before hitting the first store???  Fuck.  Me.

But here’s the thing of the thing.  I don’t talk about it that much on here.  At least not in specifics.  I reference that I was once “not this happy”?  Not this calm and relaxed.  Not always so breezy.  And I’m not really going to get into it that much more right now either.  But I will say this.  Last summer I took a trip.  I conquered some things.  I changed.  And I’ve spent the rest of the year really coming in to my own.  Coming in to the happiness that everyone deserves.  And a part of that happiness.  Part of what makes life so different for me now.  Is how I deal with things.  Breezy.  How I react to things.  Accept it.  Solve it.  Proactive.  And happy.  Can’t change it.  Then let it go.  Got a solution.  Then make it happen.  But stay calm.  Stay happy.  Life.  Is.  Beautiful.

So that being said.  I pouted for about 5 minutes.  And then carried on my merry way.  I would fight the ticket sure.  And maybe I would lose and have to pay the full amount.  And maybe I wouldn’t.  But nothing was going to change at that exact moment.  And crying and ruining my whole day.  Was not the best outcome.  So I didn’t.  I just carried on.  Off to the stores I went.  Buying new bras (4 inches smaller around).  And new jeans.  3 sizes smaller.  And a Dereon dress.  In 2x.  When I didn’t even used to fit the 3x.  And shopping in the Faith 21 section of Forever XXI.  Like shopping.  In regular people stores.  Pretty fucking brilliant.  And I don’t mean like buy a dress.  And squeeze my ass in.  And have jiggly bits all visible and hanging out.  But wearing it anyway.  I mean.  Looking foxy.  In a dress.  That breezily fits.  No bits showing.  No bulges.  All amazing.  All happy.

And then it was time for Mega Love.  And I’m sorry folks.  Because while I’m okay with getting graphic about the “somethings” sometimes.  Mega Love.  Well.  That’s just different.  Sorry.  But what I will say is this.  It was good.  We were good.  The neighbors know just exactly how good we were.  But not just the “good” good stuff.  Other stuff was good.  We had a dance party.  He showed me new music.  I showed him new music.  We talked.  We laughed.  We tried to watch the Real World.  It was hot.  It was sweet.  It was beautiful.  And he told me so, You are so beautiful, you look so good, your body….  And the kisses.  Like letting the rain soak you through in Puerto Rico.  The kisses.  Like intertwined fingers under my favorite constellation, Orion.  The kisses.  Like soft quilts in the coldest winter on a king size bed.  The kisses.  The kisses.  Our kisses.

And then it was time to leave.  10:30pm.  Because it was still at least a 2.5 hour drive.  And I wasn’t going to spend the night.  That.  Would be playing with fire.  And honestly.  I like my own bed.  Because there’s no one else in it.  And I like it that way.  For now.  So we said goodbye.  And I drove off into the night.  Armed with two CDs worth of music.  mp3s that sing our history.  A mix tape kind of love.

The thing is.  I recently lost all my music.  A decade worth of downloads.  And it’s not even just the effort it would take to download it all again.  It’s simply trying to fucking remember.  Who.  What.  What it was called.  What I even listened to.  What WE listened to.  So he made me some CDs.  One of old songs.  One of new songs.  And I have to say.  No matter what happens with us.  If our love just dissipates into the universe.  If we marry other people.  If we never marry.  If we grow up and marry each other.  And have the little milk chocolate babies we always talked about.  Me naming the first, if it’s a boy.  Whatever happens.  In life.  I will always know this.

Mega Love.  Was.  Is.  Will always be.  My Music Soulmate.  Our love wrapped up in a mix tape.  A mix CD.

When I got home, I immediately loaded all the songs onto my ipod.  And the next day.  While going through it at the gym.  I almost cried numerous times.  I laughed at loud.  I was nostalgic.  I was filled with joy.  Every song filled me with OMG I can’t believe I forgot about this one! and the memories *sigh* so brilliant.  And even the new songs.  Which I have on repeat.  Like non-stop.  Are amazing.  Are amazing.  Are Amazing.  My soulmate.  My music soulmate.  Tears.  Of.  Sheer.  Happiness.



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