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.