How to Give a Passive Aggressive Handjob (now available for digital download)

digital download

 

How to Give a Passive Aggressive Handjob is a non-fiction short story written by Victoria Young. The story recently won second runner-up in PRISM International’s 2015 creative non-fiction contest and subsequently appeared in the publication’s Spring 2016 Issue. It is now available here for download

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Russell Wangersky (Judge of the 2015 contest), described the story as having, “a more traditional structure, but a grasp of tone that is hard to achieve: self-deprecating without being self-pitying, a style that lets the reader understand the author can step out of the experience and observe the writer’s own life with a kind of clarity.”

 

 

Life Update: November 16, 2014

Dating

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All my love,

 

Victoria

 

aka SSDated

aka The Cheesecake Queen

aka That girl crying in the squat rack

All the Way Here: A Story of the Worst and Best Moments of My Life

The Joy of Dating

 

I’ve never liked the idea that one decision or one event can change your entirely life (mostly because it would paralyze me with fear given the pressure this would put on every choice I would ever have to make).

That being said, there is one moment that changed my entire life.  Not on its own.  Not without the other decisions and events that followed.  But like a metaphorical patient zero, I can trace the current trajectory of my life back to one moment, that changed everything for the better.

I won’t bore you with tales of teenage sadness, except to say that teenage sadness bled through the majority of my years.  I was severely, desperately, blindingly depressed from the age of 12 to 26.

14 years.  (cue GnR).  14 years is a long time to be sad.

I used to think that I would never get through it.  Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I had been born broken, that something in my brain just didn’t work right and that was the reason that I was this way.  I still very vividly remember cutting myself because at least it made sense, if you were upset because your arm was bleeding that was logical.  If life feels hopeless, when surrounded by a family that loves you and your future is (almost inherently) bright, that can seem incomprehensible.  How do you find your way out of something when nothing makes sense?

And then, one simple thing happened…followed by another…and then another…and so on and so on until now.  A string of events, where everything pointed in the right direction.  And it wasn’t just chance, but dammit if I don’t feel lucky.

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It happened the year I turned 26.  I was working at Coast Mountain Bus Company call centre, a union job, making more money than I ever had before and I was absolutely miserable.  I hated answering the phones–less because the people were awful (but just to be clear they were awful) and more because I felt like management didn’t have our backs.  It was probably just a symptom of the union/management dichotomy but the point (for this story, at least) is that I was absolutely fucking miserable.  I had been moved to day shifts (which, as a night owl, sucked big time).  I remember leaving for work at 5am and getting home around 3pm.  I had started going to bed by 5pm.  I couldn’t even pretend that I wasn’t miserable.  I couldn’t hide it.

Which, as it turns out, became a much more literal truth then I was expecting.

One day in February, 2008, I was standing in my parents’ kitchen, with my back to my mother, when she asked if I had been scratching at the back of my head.  I was irritated.  I was cranky.  I was miserable.  It seemed like an insane question.  It felt like she was hassling me.

“No,” I answered sullenly.  But she wouldn’t let it go.  I thought she was just going to give me some motherly advice about how I shouldn’t wear my hair in a ponytail all the time but instead she walked over and tried to examine it.  I went to the bathroom and used the old two-mirror-hairdresser-method until I saw what had her so alarmed.

My hair had fallen out.  In a huge round patch.  Bald.  Disgusting.  Even my own hair couldn’t stand to be around me.  I’m not sure I entirely believe it, but sometimes I like to think that this was my body speaking for me when I couldn’t speak for myself.

The great irony of my life is that the worst job I ever had, turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I started working at Coast Mountain Bus Company.

On December 25th 2008, I had my last drink of alcohol.

A month and a half later, my hair fell out.

I was lucky enough to get to go on paid medical leave.

I started counselling (that like every other counselor/psychiatrist/etc. that I had been to since I was a preteen wasn’t great – or at the very least, I wasn’t ready to let in).

I went back to work.

It was even worse than before.

One day, on the phone, after a snafu in scheduling, I yelled at my boss (nothing crazy just a raised voice).

The next shift I was fired.

By some miracle, I wasn’t technically “fired” but actually just “let go” (reason K – other) and thus I qualified for unemployment insurance.

The counselor I had been seeing was through my job and since I didn’t work there anymore, I had to find someone else.

My counselor recommended a government-subsidized mental health centre (conveniently located 10 minutes from my house).

And that’s where I found both a psychiatrist and a counselor that would help me to change everything.

I went on anti-depressants and put the CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) techniques I was learning to good use.

 

The way I am listing things here makes it seem so quick and easy but don’t get me wrong–it was a goddamn struggle.  I remember one time, after my psychiatrist was supposed to have upped my dosage again, returning from the drugstore and finding out he had mis-written the Rx and it was the same dose (and the pills were time release so you couldn’t just split them).  I remember flipping the fuck out, falling to the floor in sobs.  I was gutted.  The money it would cost to fill the prescription again.  The wasted pills.  The days it would take until the problem was solved.  Looking back now it seems ridiculous but I remember feeling like I had fallen overboard and just when the life raft was close enough to grasp it sunk.

I remember being so so fucking sad.  I felt like a complete failure.  A burden to my parents (would I ever be anything other than someone they had to worry about?).  I was living at home with my parents, had a degree I felt was useless, I’d been fired (in my mind) for the first time in my life and from a job I hated no less (it felt like getting rejected by someone you didn’t even want in the first place), I was overweight and in debt up to my eyeballs.  I was depressed and everything seemed worthless.  The world was terrifying.  I was ashamed and felt as if my life was meaningless, the only reason not to give up was my family who loved me so deeply (and I them) that regardless of the sad I couldn’t imagine leaving them with the kind of pain that a suicide would create.

When I started CBT, the goal was just to shower.  Just get up, and shower.  If I could do that, the day was a success.  And then it was about doing things.  Make a list.  Accomplish a thing.  Get dressed.  Go out and have a cup of coffee.  It was about not becoming overwhelmed.  It was about not seeing the world as a terrifying place (I don’t always succeed at this one).  I learned that I had to do things that I would eventually love, long before I would love them because when you’re depressed things are backwards and you can’t love anything.  So you just have to do…get out and DO…because it will get better.

And in time, I did get better.  Not quickly.  Not all at once.  But an inch of happiness here, and a moment of peace there, and life was just better.

 

And while all this was going on, I decided to go back to school.  I already had a BA in Psychology (let’s not discuss the irony), but I wanted to go grad school and revive my dream of being an English Professor and writer (something that seemed to have gotten lost along the way).

I had no idea if I could do it.  I needed to get another BA first though, so I applied to UBC and was accepted in.

I sold all the useless material things I owned and, in July and August, went on a 5 week solo trip to Europe (a similar trip I had tried but failed to complete ten years before–coming home after a week, hysterical and traumatized).

This time though, the trip was amazing.  It changed me.  I was stronger, more self-reliant, more durable.  I set out to do a thing and I did it.

September 2009, I went back to school.

I only took a few courses because, honestly, I wasn’t sure at all that I could do this (this being a second BA, this being going to grad school, this being anything but being the failure I felt like I was)

Thanksgiving (Canadian) 2009, my long-distance boyfriend of 6 years and I broke up.

January 2010, I started dating and because I didn’t want to keep telling the same story to different friends, I started the blog Something She Dated.

In the next two years:  I joined Twitter, I got a paid writing gig, I dated several boys, I lost weight, I gained some of it back (this one is still a real struggle for me), I started blogging for The Province Newspaper, I worked hard and got good grades (something I’d never really done up till now–I’d always just coasted).

In my final year, I applied to 6 graduate school programs.  In all honesty, I never really expected to get into any of them.  I got into 5.  I still remember calling my father in tears when the first letter arrived from Georgia State University saying that they wanted me.  Somebody wanted me!

I graduated with my 2nd BA (English Literature).

I ended up choosing Concordia (in Montreal) because they offered me the most funding and Montreal sounded like a great place to live, oui non?

I moved to Montreal.  The first week was brutal but now I feel like I could move anywhere, could do anything.

Grad school was great (even the times when it wasn’t great).  I became a TA in the English Department.  I did some teaching in the Engineering and Computer Science faculty.  And in this last term I even got a job teaching an English course all on my own (part time faculty, yo!).

In September 2013, I took my last anti-depressant. 

After a year in the academic stream of my degree, I decided that I’d rather do my thesis in Creative Writing.  While I have loved my time in grad school, I have realized it is unlikely that I will want to pursue a PhD in English (if anything, I’d be more likely to apply to law school but that’s another story).  I applied to the Creative stream, was accepted, and on March 26th my thesis was accepted.  I finished my courses and I will graduate with an Masters Degree in English Literature on June 9th.  

The plan is to stay in Montreal till July 31st when my lease runs out and then move back home to Vancouver to spend a few weeks (to a few months) chilling at my parents’ while I look for a job.  I’m hoping to move up north (Yukon, NWT, Nunavut)–for the adventure, for the writing inspiration, for the money.

I feel like this story explains everything, about me, entirely.  But I can’t really be sure, because I’m on the inside, I know what the puzzle looks like complete, and you guys all just have the pieces.

This is why, when it comes to dating and life, I’m always looking for the fun–the joy–the happy.

I want to date and have happiness.  I want to enjoy things just as they are.  I don’t want commitments and promises of happiness forever, I just want to enjoy the happy when it happens.  (now if only I could find a way to explain this to men that doesn’t sound like I’m using “fun” as a code word for fucking).  Because, believe you me, there are very VERY few men, that I come in contact with (online or otherwise), who can understand my desire for fun and can get on board with it.  I just want to date people and enjoy them for the time we have together.  I want to be treated like a human being, not a talking vagina.  But you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find someone who agrees.  Who can see the value in the middle ground.  Who has the ability (and desire) to care about someone generally as a person, or maybe even specifically, but doesn’t feel the need to tie their futures together.  I just want to laugh and talk and fuck and have more fun than anyone should legally be allowed to have.  

I want to date happy

Because I was so so sad for so so long and I’ve come so so far.  And I’m aware that others have definitely struggled more but this isn’t a competition, just (an abridged) story about how I got all the way here—-from way back there.

And I just hope, that if any of you are ever back there that you can hang on long enough to find your way up here because it is good.  Oh god, it is so good.  And even if I don’t always know how to help or make it better for you, just know that I’m here.  And that there is a way.  Ugh.  This is starting to sound all preachy and sappy and stuff but ya know, I’m actually a mushball (most evidence to the contrary) so whatever, I love you.

 

Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

Originally written for Thought Catalog:  Loving You Left Me Bankrupt

 

This love, I carry it in a coin purse.

We met over coffee; borrowed a pen from the teller and wrote love poems with laughter, opened a new account to deposit our smiles. We sat and drank cupfuls of possibility, like you were the seed of a good person and I was full of all the potential to draw you out. Like my interest was exponential and your arms around my waist would form a tax free loophole.

You stood in a corner and looked down at my face, asked if I knew how beautiful I was and then paid for my muffin in cash. You wore a sweater that smelled like coffee and asked my shoulders if their bareness was overwhelming. Put your arm across my back and asked me if I wanted to come home with you.

It started the first time I let you touch me.

In a split second, before I could stand up straight, you were a split personality and we split the bill and my value dropped threefold. My kisses couldn’t even shop in the half price bin. My love was going fast andslashing prices and everything must go go go. Like I was the free bin at the garage sale and I hardly had time calculate a tip; my head spinning like a top.

You looked me in the eyes and acted like my pleasure wasn’t worth your time; held my hands to keep me from reaching for a second helping. Moved your lips to form the words that spelled misogyny and silenced the sound of my cumming with your demands as you held up your hands and said stopand only if I’m the one to give it to you.

You texted bullshit about maybe stopping by like my time was only worth $0.74 on the dollar, which is funny given that the last time you were here, you seemed totally fine to take just two bites out of the three different apples in my fridge. Like I hadn’t spent my whole paycheque making sure you’d get fed. Every time you put your hand on my back I got mugged.

You’re a criminal math problem, an economic black hole, a pick pocket in a coal mine waiting for Christmas and I’m pretty sure that last Saturday night when I let you cum on my chest, the balance in my savings account dropped to zero. You’re a dent in my credit score; a reason I have to buy this blanket on lay away.

Your mom called me last week trying to tell me that she had raised a beam of light and I have to wonder if she had the wrong phone number. She wanted to cut me a cheque for time served but I told her the bill was already in the mail. She cried a bit and promised to write the wrongs, in a letter, an apologetic poem, a soliloquy to be performed at Thanksgiving dinner when she’ll look at you and her list of your charms will shrink and cringe, burn up at the edges of fiery cheeks. And while she’ll be thinking of me, you’ll just be asking for another slice of pie. You’ll the rip the crispy skin off the turkey and shove marshmallows and yams into your face and she’ll look at your dad and they’ll wonder if I even have enough money to buy Kraft Dinner.

I’ll complain to the internet, I’ll lament the sorrow, write the words down on scraps of paper and place them into the cracks of brick walls around the city. They’ll commiserate with me; the internet, and the bricks; cold and hard and ruddy red and you’ll throw bullshit birdseed in my direction every couple of weeks just to keep me from starving to death. Be careful, you say as your tongue drips with maple syrup and flies, I heard you’re not from here. It gets cold in Montreal.

But I’ve got enough blubber to keep me warm, the layers have built up over the years, and I’m starting to believe it doesn’t get that cold anyway; cold is a luxury for the rich. I’ll press the snow against my hot cheeks to melt and wash it all away and then my eyes will open up like rosebuds or corner stores on Saturday mornings, slow and patient and eventual. I’ll roll my pennies and stockpile my dimes and when Christmas comes I won’t be a pauper wrapped in rags. I’ll fly home to Vancouver and I’ll tell tales of the time I moved to a city where I only met men who stole my money and heart attacks felt more like a literal command.

Until, on a Wednesday in November, I met an accountant who knew the value of good books. Who padded his way across my chest in degrees, like an eclipse or a quarterly statement, four sharp turns from a Bachelor to a Master. So I smile through the telephone and write jocularity in the steam of my bathroom mirror, a sweet message for a man who might one day get a chance to read it, assuming he has enough to pay the toll; just a few coins for my purse, the late fee on my love.

Welcome to Montreal: Is this What Karma Feels Like?

Karma Fairy

 

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

I went out with the most ridiculous guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then came a message that would change everything.

I recognized his photo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Dear Boys, What Are You Wearing?

Something She Said

Stories about sex and dating, screenshots of sexist online dating messages, murder jokes, elaborately long fruit puns–you never quite know what you’re going to get.

What are you wearing?  That’s what the message says.  What are you wearing?  That’s what all the messages say, from all the boys, at some time or another, and I haven’t a fucking clue how to respond.  Hell, I’m not even entirely sure it’s a question.  I’m stumped.

 What do you want from me?!?!?!?

 

When you ask this thing what are you wearing?; when you say these words what are you wearing?; when your message appears across my screen what are you wearing?:  I mean, am I supposed to tell you the literal truth?  Because here’s the thing of the thing.  When you and I are together, when we’re at the stage that I’m ready for you to see the skivvies, oh yeah, I’m wearing the Red Lacies.  The sexy boy shorts.  This illicit thing.  For sure.  But when I’m at home, alone, away from you.  You can be damn sure that I’m wearing my adorable jogging pants.  No they’re not tight, they’re just normal, don’t make this weird.  They’re regular soft and stretchy comfy pants.  So no, I’m not wearing that sexy lingerie you’re dreaming of.  And no, I’m not sauntering around naked.  Don’t be an idiot.  I have shit to do.  Like cooking bacon that splatters.  Or jazzercising in front of open windows.  And that stuff can’t be done naked.    Obvs.

But I mean I get it.  I’m a writer, after all, I can be creative.  I can amp it up for you.  But is that what you want?  Is that really what you’re asking me?  Do you want me to create some verbal fantasy that I think you’ll think is sexy?  Or are you aiming for a realistic picture of how adorable hot I look in real life, at that very moment?  Or is there a third (and forth) possibility?  Are you hoping this will lead to sexting or phone sex?  Or even more hopeful, is this your way of testing the waters of booty call lake, to see if I’m interested in getting wet, in having a quick dip?  I honestly don’t know what your deal is, boys, and thus, here is my plea:

Dear boys,

My dear sweet boys.  What is it exactly that you want from me?  The reality of it all?  Or do you want the smoke and mirrors and pay no attention to that man behind the curtain?  Do you want to be able to picture me in the very way that I am, at that very moment that you message me?  Or is your aim the sugar and sexy spice that comes standard on our date nights?  Are you trying to get into my skivvies?  Is this the time for fantastical fictional narratives?  Honestly, tell me boys, seriously, what the fuck do you want from me when you type those confusing words–What are you wearing?

Yours Truly,

Judgey Wudgey

aka Something She Dated
aka Your favorite jogging pants sexter
aka That girl at the coffee shop
aka flip that bacon girl it’s burning
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time