The year of me

Beyond just getting out of the dating game I've decided to change up a few things in my life. As I sit crunching raw veggies I'm wondering if breaking up with sugar, dairy, and wheat for the month wasn't too harsh. I mean they pretty much make me feel like crap, they hurt me but they're so good. Yes I realize this sounds a lot like the men I date. But seriously, taking away all my fun cold turkey might have been a tad rash on my part.

It's been a whopping three day and I really want sugar right now. I would have thought dairy. But nope. It's sugar. I want candy. Bitches love candy. 

Hopefully it won't last because I need to kick bad habits. Sugar, dairy, wheat, not enough exercise and bad boys. Detox here I come. Bring it on September. 

Stories told to not date me

So it's been awhile since I've posted. As much as I said I wanted off the emotional roller coaster, I really wanted to spend some time torturing myself with the way things ended. There is no one on earth who can make me feel worse than I make myself feel. Except my mom. She can give it a good run. But that's an entirely different blog. 

Back to this blog. I spent a good portion of the last two months doubting who I am because I abandoned someone in their time of need. Anyone who knows me knows, knows that's not who I am. (People who know me, feel free to leave kind posts.) So it really shook me. Made me wonder if I was rash and impulsive. If maybe I compromised my values. But today the universe told me to get my head out of my ass. 

Basically this individual told me he thought he had cancer and couldn't handle a relationship right now. When he said this, I calmly let him leave. But after a few weeks it became apparent he really wanted to keep me on the hook and treat me like crap in the process. I called him on it. Said I sympathized but since he wanted me out so he got it. And cut it off.

Afterwards I felt this sadness for what might have been. This guilt for not being more supportive. This emptiness. I was consumed with thoughts about him. Wondering is he ok? Am I a horrible person? Should I have fought harder? Was standing up for myself a huge mistake? Today I got my answer. 

He's fine. He's back with the girl that he was with immediately before confessing his undying love to me. (Seriously this guy changes love interests more often than I change my sheets.) It wasn't that he couldn't handle a relationship. It was just that he didn't want to be with me. Lightbulb!!

So thank you universe for giving me the closure I needed to realize I am in fact an incredible person and he is in fact a selfish douche bag. 

Roller Coasters

Apparently I haven't done enough to get men to actually read my open letter to them because the games just keep coming. And I'll be honest emotional roller coasters aren't nearly as fun as those in amusement parks.

In my latest dating disaster, my so-called relationship lasted less time than my UTI. And I went for the five day course, not the seven day. Tragic I know.

The worst part of all this is that I specifically asked for no drama. I put it on the line, was upfront with what I wanted, and what I expected. He agreed. Saying he wanted the same thing and to be a part of my life. Oh happy days! Finally. An adult conversation with a male, with someone who owned his shit.

Fast forward five days, and I get dumped. He can't handle the stress of a new relationship and the personal things he's currently dealing with. He needs space. Needs time. It's just too much.

The thing is I don't react. You'd think I would see red and lose my mind. Tell him that he can fuck off and die. Instead I'm calm and totally at peace. I tell him that if that's what he needs, that's what he'll get. And I let him leave.

I've realised that if I want men to stop playing games with me that I need to stop engaging. I need to stop playing games myself. Freaking out. Screaming and yelling. Verbally throwing up on him wouldn't have solved anything. Wouldn't have made him change his mind. Wouldn't have made me feel better. Wouldn't have made it hurt less.

So I'm out. Keep playing games boys. But do it on your own.

An open letter to men

Dear men of the world,

Hey how's it been going? Sorry about your sports team and that big game. Really thought they left it all on the field, court, ice, whatever. Am writing this letter as I have a favour to ask.

We've been friends for what decades? In that time I haven't really asked for a lot. I mean the request for you to stop teasing me in your younger years really wasn't that big of deal was it? This time I kind of have something big to ask. A real shift in you way of thinking. So here it goes. 

Can you stop playing games? 

Before you get defensive and start throwing shit around about girls and their game, just hear me out. 

I get your love of competition. Your need for battle. Who doesn't love to win? But contrary to current practice, toying with my emotions is not an Olympic sport. No matter how many times you do it, you just won't qualify for Russia. Sorry. 

I know what your thinking, hey single girl stop making it so easy. And while I will admit maybe I walk into bad situations, I do expect people to operate with a certain level of decency and decorum. 

For example things like the death of your pet, a shitty weekend with your current girlfriend, fight with your family, a loss of a job or even just a booze induced shame spiral are not reasons to call me with your sob story. I am a perpetual softy as much as I am single. I will feel badly about your tragedy de jour and worry. Worrying, feeling guilty and drinking wine are the only things I'm good at when it comes to being Catholic. 

So for the sake of my sanity and my level of wine consumption, kindly stop giving me back handed compliments and trying to keep me on the hook to stroke your ego when things go badly.

Thanks 

Me

Note: I use the term men to refer to anyone with a penis. I realize not all people who have a penis are men. In fact, this letter is really addressed more to the subsection known as adult men who behave like children or douche bags. I just thought men was a nice catch all. 

Boys and Bodily Functions

You may remember my comment about the boy who peed in my bed in my first post. If you don't, here's the short version of the story. A boy slept over. Boy peed in my bed. The kicker, he has a girlfriend. Lesson from that one, ask if boy has control over his bladder and if he's single before you invite him to sleep over.

For those of you who would like the full story, because hearing that someone peed in my bed isn't entertaining enough, here it is. (Apologies to my family in advance.)

Was having a lovely conversation with this fella. You know the kind where you're connecting on so many things? Where you think is this guy in my head? We talked about our values. We talked about children. We talked about politics. We talked about what makes us laugh. We talked about the last time we cried. We talked until 6 a.m. That's right. I have been up at 6 a.m. before. Not a morning person my ass.  

When I realized how much time had passed, I said I had to go to bed. Being a boy, he asked if he could stay. Being me, I said sure. I was exhausted so I passed out after some pretty PG kissing. A few hours later I woke up an noticed a wet spot in my bed. Thinking that perhaps he experienced what some overly stimulated boys experience, I kind of shrugged it off. That was until I heard him start to stammer, "uh, I, oh God." His face dropped. I horrifyingly realized it. THIS GUY PEED IN MY BED.

To give you an idea of things, my bed is less than four feet away from my bathroom. If I fell out of bed I could actually hit my head on the toilet. And I'm very short. 

Here's how the dialogue continued with my thoughts in italics.

Him: So I guess we're not having sex?

Are you insane? I have to deal with this before your urine ruins my mattress you asshole.

Me: Ah no.

Him: Ok, do you have any lube?

Are you serious? You just peed my bed and now you're going to rub one out in my bathroom? How did you being a giant perv not come up in our marathon chat session?  

Me:Ummm...

Him: Well I was thinking we could try anal.

I'll give you a minute so that can sink in.

On what planet does someone say no to sex but yes to anal? Seriously?! Does he not know the order of things? Has someone not explained the base system to him? Anal doesn't have a base because it's not something you just ask for all nonchalantly. Did he think I was going to say, "Oh anal? Of course. I'd love to do that on my pee soaked sheets"!? 

Instead, I told him to get out.  

While throwing out my sheets, along with my very expensive, and very ruined, feather mattress pad I found out this guy had a girlfriend. All I could think is man she is one lucky girl to have that gem. 

Fast forward, I've been on a couple dates with this guy who is quite shy. On both dates, we had a great time. Lots of laughs. But I just wasn't sure. Until he kissed me outside the pub.

It was a good kiss. A sweet kiss. A kiss with some spark.

He politely drove me home and then leaned in for another kiss. And then he let one rip. I'm not talking a squeeker. I'm talking wake the neighbours, shake the car, giant fart. His face sank. He looked  like he want to crawl under a rock and die.

I sort of giggled (yes I'm a 12 year old, farts make me giggle) and thanked him for a nice time. I quickly got out of the car. I texted him a thanks for a good time get home safely note when I got in. He responded with a thanks sleep tight note. But we haven't talked about the fart.

So I'm wondering do I let it go? Do I make a joke about it? Do I send him the E-card below? And what is with me and boys who can't control their bodily functions?     

Knowing your Wheelhouse

There's a tag line from one of the lotto corps that's something like "know your limit play within it". Wheelhouses are kind of the same. You have to know your area of expertise. Your range. Your type. Your limits. And stick to it.

Does this sound shallow? Superficial? Reinforcing the stereotypes that the media puts out there? Maybe. But let's be real here, wheelhouses exist.

After having a particularly brutal weekend, one of those where if I was asked to do one of those Dove sketches, I would have come out looking like Shrek, I was beginning to doubt my wheelhouse. Maybe what I thought I knew, I didn't know. And maybe what I didn't know is in fact the truth. This shame spiral, as I like to call it, lasted longer than just the weekend. It spread into the next week, like some sort of icky fog. I was so cranky that I could hardly stand to be around myself. Apologies to my coworkers.

Now you're probably wondering what prompted all this. Clearly, it had to be something catastrophic. Like children running away screaming "make the monster go away" as I approached them. Or old ladies bursting into tears at the sight of me.

No. No. It was none of that. It was far more innocuous. Basically, a guy wouldn't talk to me at the bar. I know. I heard you. Gasp. The nerve. But this guy, with his smug ass you-think-I-would-want-to-talk-to-you look, was enough to plant a seed of self doubt.

So I started thinking that maybe my wheelhouse was off. Maybe I'm not the awesome gal I thought I was. I spent a long time feeling this way. Beating myself up. Seriously, if some had treated one of my friends this way I'd have throat punched them. Released the inner dragon. 

So I went to one of my particularly brutally honest friend about my wheelhouse. You know that friend who will not sugarcoat things. The one who has no problem telling you your new haircut looks like crap. After a slightly embarrassing conversation, I was assured that no I was not overly cocky about my amazingness and yes that guy was an idiot.

Clearly, at the end of the day, some guys are just douche bags with no manners.

The Magic of the Three Week Window

There's something about my relationships. I'm using the term relationship incredibly loosely here. As you can guess from the title of this blog, it's been awhile since I've been in what Webster, or anyone with half a brain, would define as a relationship. In any event, I can't seem to get over the three week mark. They tend to go something like this: meet a guy, have a few fun dates, like guy, guy says he likes me, and guy disappears. And I don't mean just disappears. I mean totally goes MIA. I'm fairly stealth when it comes to tracking people, or information, down. So to be clear I mean totally off the grid. (You say stalkerish. I say stealth. Let's agree on my version so we both don't look foolish, ok?) 

I know what any women reading this are thinking. Maybe he lost my number? Maybe he lost his phone? Maybe he lost his phone, his computer, his laptop and the ability to connect to the Internet completely? Maybe his grandma/grandpa/aunt/uncle/second cousin twice removed died and he had to fly to the funeral suddenly? Maybe he died? Maybe he's currently lying in a ditch somewhere? Maybe he was shipped off to war?

I've thought these things too. None of them are true. Here's why:
1. It's not 1940s. If he was going to war, I'd likely know after three weeks about his involvement in the military.
2. If he was dead in a ditch it would have been on the news. He's not in a ditch.
3. If he had to fly to a funeral he could call from the cab on the way to the airport.
4. He has a job and could contact me from there. (Ok. So not all of the guys I've been out with have jobs but most do.)
5. Unless he went to Mexico and had too much tequila, he did not lose his phone. This sounds amazingly like personal experience because it did happen to me recently. So the likelihood of it happening to him as well is slim to none.
6. He didn't lose my number. He deleted. There's a difference.  

The fact is it's like that incredibly inspiring book of relationship advice says "He's Just Not That Into You", or in this case me. But why do they all last three weeks?

Studies have shown that after 21 days (aka three weeks) something becomes a habit. Don't ask me to give you sources. This isn't an academic paper it’s a blog about my single life. Just trust me.

So my new theory is that when men approach the three week mark they start to get that tight in the chest feeling. That shortness of breath feeling. That sweet Jesus I'm having a heart attack feeling. And they think they're dying. That's fair. After all the Heart and Stroke Foundation has done a really good job of promoting warning signs. Note: If you don’t know the warning signs of a heart attack or stroke go check out the Heart and Stroke Foundation. Do it now. I’ll wait. I don’t want to be responsible for your death.

Now that we all know the warning signs, we know this isn’t a heart attack. This is a guy realizing that something is potentially getting more serious than he wants and him freaking out. I’m assuming he thinks that you’ll want to talk about feelings now. You’ll want to talk about where this is going. And you’ll want to talk about all those other things that no one actually wants to talk about except two girls who make us all look like emotional loose cannons. Thanks for that girls.

If you’re anything like me you’re left wondering WTF!? You think I made it perfectly clear that I don’t want anything serious. That yes I like him, but we’re just getting to know each other and enjoying our time together. So what does he have to freak out over? At least that what I wonder.

The fact is I don’t really have an answer to any of this. If I did, I wouldn’t be writing this blog. I’d be writing one called My super awesome relationship and how you can have one too. But no one would read that blog because let’s be honest here, reading about people’s success is far less fun than reading about their failure. Also that blog title sounds like the author is a smug asshole.

So what can you take away from this? Well, if he bails three weeks in or three years in, he’s just not that into you. Sometimes it really is that simple. Also, now you know the difference between freaking out and a heart attack.  You’re welcome.