Oil, lube and filter … no, seriously

I’m a fiercely independent woman … I drill holes to hang my art, assemble bookshelves, open my own jars with stuck lids, but there is one thing that makes me want to curl up into a ball or going crying for my daddy.

And that is finding a new garage/mechanics for my car.

Fortunately there is nothing currently wrong with my car (insert a thankful happy dance), but it is time for an oil change. A new city requires finding a new garage and I have now been procrastinating this for more than a month.

It’s an art, I need a place that isn’t going to rub their hands together with glee because they think I’m  stupid and easy money, but I also don’t need a place that is so technical that I need to be excused to call my mechanical engineering friend to find out what is going on.

I can check my own oil, but I can’t (or more to the point, not willing) to change it on my own.

I’ve always been a fan of the mom-and-pop places, where the owner is the same guy that looks under the hood, but TV commercials always show smiling people driving up-to and away-from a quick oil-and-filter place.

Where does that leave me … mostly wondering if I should just wait for a Group On.

So I continue to put off having it down, even though I realize if there is going to be a problem it will be worse if I leave it.

In another couple of months, I’ll be the one pushing my car off the highway in 30 C weather. Oh, I’m kidding. Ish.

Hey baby, want to see my cave?

You know the dating situation is your town is bad news when a friend of a friend finds a personal ad online that reads, “vegan, unemployed, poly-amourous” and decides to go on the date anyway.

Did I mention that this woman is a hard-core feminist?

I chuckled when the story was related to me a couple of weeks later over breakfast with a mutual friend. To be honest I was thinking, who would take anyone up on that – and what kind of idiot thinks he’d pick up a decent, smart woman with that as a starting point.

Then it was my turn.

I’ve been flirting with this guy back and forth for a couple of weeks. He’s not my type, preferring full-contact sports and excessive drinking to reading and conversation, but he’s cute and sweet. I gave him my number. He’s ignored it for weeks. I went through the range of, confusion, anger, upset and finally not caring, all the while continuing to flirt. Then this week, he decides that we should hang out.

I’d hate to mock someone, especially if they are shy and genuinely like a person, but I’m willing to make an exception in this case.

“Hey, so I’m thinking we should hang out this weekend, what about Friday night.”

A fairly decent start and I was starting to think that something could be worked out. I was about to open my mouth to tell him yes, when he kept talking.

“I’m thinking I could be there by around 10 p.m. … and I’ll probably be pretty drunk, so I’ll have to take a cab.”

I just stared. Is this the Neanderthal version of my future dating life?

For a moment, a very, very brief moment I considered it, then my brain kicked in.

I realized he pretty much said, ‘hey baby, I want to come by your house in the middle of the night, drunk, so we can have sex.”

At the time I didn’t say anything, I think my brain was trying to figure out some way to comprehend how in any way his offer was, in any way, acceptable … so he winked and walked away.

I look forward to explaining to him why I won’t be available that Friday or really any day into the future.

Is this really the new mating ritual? I’m as much a modern and independent woman as the next girl, but whatever happened to dating, class, chivalry? Should women really have to look forward to being clubbed over the head and dragged off the cave with the drunken, unemployed or multi-partnered idiot? Say it ain’t so…

Fair Introspection and other Healthy Weight Loss Plans

Lately I’ve been doing the obsessive, compulsive, but alarmingly common, female thing of constantly stepping on the scale.

As much as I like to think I am not affected what society believes when it comes to beauty and size, I fall victim to wanting the stereotype. I am tall and I can’t do anything except celebrate it, which I’m learning to do. I wear heels and rarely slouch.

But, I’m not particularly skinny. I’m not fat either, I’m too active for anything like that, but I think to be tall the social acceptable thing is skinny and it drives me crazy that I am not.

To make matters worse, I’ve gained back a few of the pounds I’ve fought hard to lose. It’s so frustrating because I have to be so careful with everything that I eat. It’s unfortunate because I really love food and this summer, I’ve clearly been loving food a little too much.

So the new plan is to up the amount of bunny food in my diet because it’s easier in the summer, when the farmers’ market is packed with fresh produce.  I’ll make sure my proteins are lean, and that I am getting enough of them, and ease off the ice cream and nachos and beer on sunny patios.

The good news is I’ll hopefully start creating some photo-worthy food and watching the scale number keep going down instead of up.

I’ll also stop stepping on the scale fully clothed, wearing jeans and a belt, holding my cell phone and chunky metal jewelry and having a heart attack because I’ve gained five pounds from when a stepped on it a day earlier, after stepping out of the shower, wrapped in a towel.

See it’s all about healthy introspection, which is the final part of the plan.

Of course, if anyone has any ideas on how to view yourself fairly … please don’t hesitate to share them.

Blood Suckers and Other First Date Disasters

Around the same time I picked another mosquito off the tiny bit of skin I had exposed I realized that I could be experiencing the worst first date on record.

I’m sure this is something a lot of girls say, but I’m sure their experiences don’t leave them bleeding, itchy and giving motherly advice to their date.

Oh, yes, it was all this and more.

Put it this way, if that is dating life — I more than totally okay with being single.

I met this guy at the second wedding that I was a bridesmaid in, this summer.

There is a perk to being the token single bridesmaid at any wedding. Inevitably there will be a groomsman or wedding guest that will suddenly realize they want to meet the girl of their dreams … incidentally that’s not me, but I do usually end up with a date out of the deal.

In this case it was a groomsman that I really hit it off with and although he became increasingly creepier the more he drank, I still decided to hang out with him again.

We decided on a hike. I like to be out walking and there are trails nearby my house that have no map and were known to have the occasional bear lingering around, so it wasn’t something I wanted to take on solo.

I was under the impression he knew the area.

Standing at the base of a steep sand dune long after any trail disappeared I realized that is why you never assume anything.

He started straight up, even though his route was dangerously close to the swollen river below. I opted for what looked to be a safer route and ended up clambering over a tree that had fallen across the trail during a recent storm.

I may have ended up with scratches all over my legs and hands, but at least I had found the trail again.

His idea of a hike is apparently bushwhacking, with him stopping to identify every plant we encountered, which might have been a great experience if he’d known more than about four of them or if the mosquitos stopped licking their lips with glee every time we stopped.

The good conversation from the wedding was non existent. When he started a conversation, he often had nothing to contribute leaving me feeling like I had to talk to fill the very awkward dead airtime. When I started a conversation, he looked at me blankly.

When I started giving him advice on what to take at university, I realized it I was sounding like a guidance counselor and it was time to go home. We made it back to the car very quickly.

He seemed to feel the same way about me, as I did about him! Fortunately he came to a full stop in front of my house so I could get out — although for the briefest moments I though he was going to yell “tuck and roll” as he slowed to 30 kilometres.

He hasn’t gotten in touch since. I haven’t missed it.

But the memories of the date stuck with me for the next two weeks as I continued to scratch at the 20 mosquito bites covering my hands and ankles.

Facing off – Seeing the Ex Again

So not that long ago, okay, it was likely more than a month, I saw … THE EX.

(Insert melodramatic dun,dun, dunnnh)

It’s not like it’s easy. He lives a 14 hour or longer drive away from me.

I was under the impression that when we broke up clear lines were drawn,  he was to stay on the American side of the border and me on the Canadian.

I thought he understood that when I said please don’t email me again, I meant it.

But, unfortunately, or maybe with hindsight it was fortunate, he decided to email me to let me know he was coming through town with some old friends on holidays.

Naturally I couldn’t ignore it — that would have been rude. And I couldn’t respond with, ‘what part of please don’t email me was unclear,’ because then I would have sounded bitter or angry, of which I am neither (anymore). So I did what everyone told me not to do.

I agreed to meet him at some point during his trip.

Then I set about making myself busy, but not too busy, so it wouldn’t be so easy.

He contacted a friend about getting her to cater a meal of us. She told me about this query, which then made me want to see him even more, because I was dying to know where he thought this might go.

I had little butterflies in my stomach when he called, so I didn’t let him pick me up, instead meeting at the coffee shop.

I walked into the café a fashionably five minutes late and there he was, at the counter.

He turned to me and I felt …

Nothing.

No, seriously. I was prepared for anything, but there was nothing. There were no lingering feelings of romance, not love, not anger, not sadness, not frustration and not even hurt.

We briefly hugged, sat and talked for about an hour-and-a-half about inane and random things, his brother’s friend, his sister’s move. Nothing about his job (or lack thereof) and nothing about our relationship (er, or lack thereof).

Honestly, when we said goodbye and after he said he’d be in touch on the trip back (which he wasn’t) I couldn’t even decide if it was good to see him.

It wasn’t until a few days later when I realized I didn’t care, that I knew it was good to see him. I’d stopped “accidentally” checking his twitter feed or checking out the website he posts on and while I wish him well in the future and genuinely hope for the best, I know I don’t have to really care anymore.

Even when he sent another email explaining his lack of calling again, I felt nothing.

Maybe one day, when I have some spare time on my hands, I’ll look him up again and I hope to find him doing well.

But until then I can rest assured that I did what I knew I would. I got over him.

I guess that’s another rule and it may be clichéd, but time heals all wounds.

The crazy part is, with the feeling of strength I now have and lessons learned while healing, made it all worthwhile and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Small action, big impact — the art of flowers

So I’ve met a man that sends flowers.

Not ‘I’m-sorry’ flowers or ‘oh-shit-it’s-our-anniversary’ flowers, but, ‘it-was-nice-to-meet-you-and-I-hope-we-can-keep-in-touch’ flowers.

I was at a wedding, which I realize isn’t that newsworthy seeing as lately I seem to be attending them nearly monthly. This particular wedding was one that was set to be particularly awkward, ex-boyfriends, old schoolmates I haven’t kept in touch with, a virtual minefield.

There were a couple of people there that I didn’t know and one of the ­— fortunately for me — single men and I quickly made a pact. He would recuse me if I look particularly trapped by a conversation or a person.

And he did, with class, on more than one occasion.

Fast forward a great evening filled with music and dancing, an afternoon of great conversation and excuses to stay longer and a promise by him to get in touch … and I walked away.

I figured it was what it was, a great chance meeting between two people who live on opposite sides of the planet. He would fly back to his continent and that would be that.

And after a week of not hearing from him, I had myself convinced that whatever dizziness I thought I felt was likely due to the corset like dress and I didn’t really care.

That Friday, our receptionist called me to the front. The flowers were beautiful and the note simple. It was perfect.

After explaining that no, I didn’t sleep with him nor really anything other than talk, the women in my officer were blown away.

And admittedly, I was as well.

At that moment, I realized I had another rule for living: enough with the men who are good enough or fill a void, wait for those guys who treat you in the way you deserve.

I hardly know him, but find myself curious over how good things could get.

Going From a Five to a 10, the Wedding Waiter Theory

The understated, hardworking waiter. Flickr photo by hansvandenberg30

Have I ever explained my wedding/waiter theory?

It’s like the female equivalent of beer goggles.

It starts with the basic 10-point scale, with one being the lower end of who you would date and 10 being the cream of the crop.

So in my books waiters are usually about a five. They are often cute, although not particularly smart or well spoken. I’m not being mean, most waiters my age are aspiring actors or models or something, or they are really young … anyway.

But those waiters that are with catering companies or at hotel banquet halls are used to wedding parties and the unyielding cravings and requests of psycho bridezillas and her handlers – er bridesmaids. So they are really attentive, which means a five quickly becomes a six.

Now as the night wears on, I usually start to realize I am among the last single girls at the party and despite the number of times I explain that it’s by choice, I grow tired of the sympathetic looks. So, I start to think about, well, maybe I should be dating someone. And suddenly that attentive waiter is a little cuter, so say a seven.

Weddings are so good at making us single girls second … um, third, guess our status.

By the time the fourth slow dance is on — during that in between time between the “wedding” ending and the “party” starting — the wait staff is growing as tired as I am. So usually I sneak outside and chat with them in necessity for my sanity. Turns out that waiter? He’s pretty funny … and suddenly an eight.

And when it comes to booze at the wedding, the waiters control the flow of wine. Any man that keeps the alcohol flowing, in a responsible manner (of course), gets a point just in principle. And now he’s nine.

The party starts, I love to dance, so spend most of the night on the dance floor, awkwardly two-stepping with random members of the bridal party, spinning around with actual ballroom dancers, getting my grove on with other girls standing in a circle.

The waiter then usually materializes with water and, just before I leave, they get my coat. Clearly, I’ve under-valued the waiter, he’s clearly at 10 and I’m obviously in love.

I bat my eyes and gush at how awesome the waiter has been for the evening. Then, fortunately the self defense mechanism kicks in — run at the feeling of love.

I go home alone and in the morning wake up, bordering on a hangover, but still, blissfully single.

This theory is also valid at bachelorette parties, where, as the token single girl, you are expected to “get into more trouble” than everyone else … or at least provide the entertainment. I’ll have to tell you about Tony from Texas one day.