Like most of us I’m a product of my environment. I’ve spent enough time in the safe bosom of university life where liberal ideals are fostered and social tolerance prized above all else that I’m comfortable describing myself as socially progressive. I support gay marriage (I don’t think civil unions go far enough), I’m not sure I’ll ever get married and I would never wear an engagement ring… BUT… when it comes to how many people I want in my relationship I am, apparently, quite conservative.

I first met a polyamorous guy about four years ago. He was charming, sweet, and completely unassuming. He also happened to be from the city I’m currently living where, it seems, there is quite the thriving poly scene. I’ve discovered there are a number of different ways of doing the poly thing… you can have a ‘primary’ partner and other partners who are of peripheral importance, you can have a three-way relationship where all are of equal importance, or one person might be poly while the other isn’t etc. There really are no bounds when it comes to polyamory. The key is that everybody knows about and respects the other lover(s).

While I have no doubt that monogamy in its current form is failing in society, causing a huge amount of pain to many wives, husbands, and children, I don’t see poly relationships overcoming any of these problems. The poly argument, of course, is that affairs rip relationships apart whereas taking another lover isn’t cheating if everybody is on-board. I can even see how the whole process would be (albeit temporarily) a turn-on. My problem is that the biology behind mating means that we have that intense feeling of falling in love (complete with the euphoria inducing oxytocin) when we meet someone new but what of the existing relationship? It is inevitable that passion for the initial lover is going to be marginalized by our desire for the new lover. I don’t believe that conditioning ourselves to expect our partner will find someone new is enough to make a love last a lifetime which, though perhaps not the goal of polyamory, is something I aspire to in a relationship.

I want to be enough for someone. I want to be the intellectual challenge, the creative muse, and the physical passion for someone. And I can be. I know this because I have been. The difficulty is making it last. So why this rambling? The thing is… the New Boy has a polyamorous history and no shortage of diverse sexual experiences. I don’t. I could go on about why these different expectations would lead to certain doom if we were to pursue some kind of relationship but, ultimately, I can’t get past the fact that it’s just not worth putting my sexual health at risk. No matter how much I like a person. So, yeah, The Crazy has won out this time, and I’m really sad because he is a magical person. But I just can’t go there.

There really aren’t any feelings that compare to the giddiness you get from the first dates with somebody promising. There are just those moments when you realize you’re holding your breath, like… when they mention loving one of your favourite authors (one that nobody reads)… when they laugh really heartily at the story you just told… when their friends tell you in front of him how glad they are that he has met someone so cool… when you’re laughing with his colleague and he makes eye contact and smiles at you from across the room… or when you’re chronically sleep-deprived but can’t bring yourself to stop talking because there’s just so much more to say.

And then you get home and The Crazy kicks in. I don’t think I’m an insecure woman and I have no doubt that The Boy is completely smitten with me. But get me alone and my god do I have an ability to dig up what might be quite benign relationship hurdles and turn them into evidence of imminent doom. I go out of my way to find reasons to get scared and uncertain. Though in my defence I’m much more creative than the regular ‘will he call’ or ‘maybe he’ll change his mind’ concerns, oh no, I have much bigger fish to fry. I found this quote a few months back… I don’t know where…

“Don’t be so wedded to the outcome of the relationship that you forget to enjoy the feeling of being in it.”

And normally I can laugh at myself and realize I’m getting carried away. But y’know I think maybe this time I’m not. Maybe The Crazy is actually the way that we protect ourselves from getting hurt. From getting drawn in too deep, too soon. Maybe my ability to read people and get such a good sense of who they are as a person is also a curse because, ultimately, I don’t know his history or what shaped him to be the person he is. I find myself asking whether the fact that he is a good person who cares about me is enough? Maybe we’re too different and maybe The Crazy is a fear of the unknown that might actually stop me from getting my heart broken?

But, of course, all of this is moot because I can’t not see him again.

One year ago yesterday I was moving my stuff out of the house I shared with my ex and into a dingy old apartment on the 3rd floor of a dilapidated house. It was the only place I could find that didn’t lock me into a long lease and allowed me to move at a day’s notice. I’ve ended my fair share of relationships but this was the first time I had my heart ripped out and jumped on. I guess the fact that I’ve now been relationship-free for a year speaks to how much this affected me. It has made me re-evaluate my views on marriage and relationships, the qualities that I look for in a man, and how I treat the people I’m with. But this is MY anniversary of being single and rather than dwelling on the shitty stuff that brought me here I want to focus on the great stuff that comes about from being single and the things I’ve figured out…

1. I pretty quickly figured out that Mr Metro was not worth my tears. A bit later I figured out he wasn’t worth my anger either. When someone consistently prioritises their own feelings and needs at the expense of your own they’re not worth hanging on to.
2. I realized when I was driving what seemed like a gigantic moving truck myself that I CAN do anything. We put limits on ourselves when something is scary or out of our comfort zone it doesn’t mean we can’t do it. I can drive a truck and I can kick ass driving a truck even when I’ve got tears streaming down my face.
3. A few months post-break-up when I passed my PhD exam I realized that I don’t need a man. That support and friendship I had been getting from Mr Metro felt nice at the time but it felt better that I achieved my goals without him. Or even despite of him. And I’m pretty proud of that.
4. I learned that I am incredibly adaptable. I’ve moved cities three times in the past year even going to polar ends of the earth. It can be lonely but I’ve made tons of new friends and renewed old friendships with people who are dear to me. In the short time I’ve been in Toronto I’ve met dozens of new people, I’ve started Pilate’s and begin outdoor soccer on Sunday. A place is what you make of it and I’m trying my hardest to find my place in this city.
5. I’ve found that blogging can be both an incredible support and a great way to think through your feelings. I’ve never been much of a journal keeper but this is kind of like an on-line journal that makes me wiser and more reflective. But mostly it has given me the insight, encouragement and friendship of a group of disparate people who, for some reason, get it. Thank you.

Perhaps I’m a little slow. Okay, I’ve been single for one year so lets make this a definite - I’m slow. But I’ve finally pinpointed the universal trick that men use to gauge whether or not to make a move on a girl.

The knee kiss.

Usually you’ll be sitting at a table in a pub. A few friends might come and squeeze up to the table and suddenly you find the guy next to you brushes his knee against your leg for just a second. Five minutes later he leaves it there for about 30 seconds. Assuming you don’t move your leg away this will slowly escalate. By the end of the night (or within an hr depending on how fast he works) his leg is pressed firmly against yours and the knee kiss will be the beginning of many other kisses.

It’s that simple.

And, MollyE, I’m convinced this could work over coffee too it’s all about making sure you’re sitting close enough.

so… well… the thing is… I don’t really know how to put this so I’ll just spit it out.

I met someone.

I’m not an anxiety-ridden bundle of nerves wondering what’s going to happen next or planning our future - in fact I haven’t even bothered to get his phone number - but he is a whole lot of fun and he makes me really happy. I’m enjoying uncovering his layers. He’s incredibly smart and looks at the world from a different perspective than, well, pretty much anyone.

Of course the boy happens to be a barman which, as we all know, are usually best avoided. But this guy really, really likes me. We’ve only been out a couple of times but even his friends are excited that he has met someone and have been incredibly warm towards me.

I admit there’s a little part of me that is freaking out thinking this is all too much too soon. Maybe it’ll all fizzle out or maybe it’ll stay a casual thing. But I guess for me it’s a little bit of a big deal that someone is making me this happy. It has been a long time coming.

One of the many great features of my new neighbourhood is the super-hot brown-haired guy who lives down the street. He’s tall, on the skinny side (just how I like them) and he has an impeccable sense of style which extends to wearing a different oh-so-cool hat everyday.

I have to pass Hot Neighbour’s place pretty much every time I leave the house and the last few times I’ve damn near walked into him as he has sprung out onto the path directly in front of me. He gives me a big smile which I return much more demurely followed by a glance at the pavement and off he disappears.

Of course I wasn’t giving any thought to the Hot Neighbour when I dressed for my jog tonight throwing on my skimpiest pair of shorts to deal with the summer heat. So of course directly in front of me he appears with a big smile on his face. I think it was just a little too early in our relationship to expose my ageing pasty-whites and bare-faced complexion. Damn you Hot Neighbour… some warning next time, please!

10.00pm Wed

Me: “Can I have a Sol beer thanks?”

11.00pm Wed

Him: “Do you wanna have another drink here or go see the band?”

12.00pm Wed

Me: [Why do I always end up getting swung around the dance floor by boys who know how to dance when I, most certainly, do not?]

1.00am Thurs

Him: “Hey do you wanna do a pubcrawl on the East side; I can take you to all our local bars?

Me: “Yeah, let’s do it.”

2.00am Thurs

Local barman guy: “I just want to say that you’ve got a beautiful smile. You’ve been smiling all night and it’s great to see.”

Me: “Um, Uh [smile]”

Local barman guy: “See isn’t that great [motions to the bartender girl next to him who looks mildly irritated] Keep that up, keep that up.”

Me: [sipping on second extra-strong martini]

3.00am Thurs

Him: “Hey, it’s a 24hr donut factory.”

Me: “I noticed that place the other day; I’m totally curious – shall we?”

Him: “Well it is a donut factory.”

[Walking in]

Me: “Um, I’m not getting much of the factory feel here.”

Him: “In fact it looks suspiciously like a convenience store that happens to sell donuts.”

I seem to have gone through some strange kind of hormonal swing in recent months because instead of being attracted to the smart, talkative but slightly serious men of the past I can’t stay away from the outgoing mischievous types. You know, the ones who stay out all night drinking, are completely unpredictable, and have absolutely no inclination to settle down.

What I can’t figure out is whether this is a reflection of me right now i.e. I’m not super interested in commitment at this point or whether I really am better with someone who is more of a complement than a double. I’m definitely tired of the kind of relationship where ‘him’ and ‘me’ becomes ‘we’ and talk devolves into debates over paint chips and whether tomato puree or tomato paste should be on the shopping list.

When I was seventeen I got into my first long-term relationship; it lasted about two and a half years and had plenty of bumps along the way. Most acutely I remember the warm feeling that would rush over me every week when I would get a knock at the window from a trashed young man wanting somewhere to sleep. Sure, he woke me up and usually I had to work in the morning but it also balanced out the mid-week meals and campus coffees that marked stability. We had our own lives and it worked for us. He was spontaneous and passionate but, most importantly, I couldn’t tell him how to live his life and he never tried to shape me to be his other half. I was just me: someone fluid and evolving.

There is a comfort and security in knowing where someone will be every minute of the day, that there will be someone at home making you dinner, that you won’t be alone on a Friday night but, as the saying goes, familiarity breeds contempt. Despite having lived with two men it was my first boyfriend, the unpredictable partier, who I trusted implicitly. We’ve been broken up for 8 years and when he told me a couple of months ago that ‘despite what my friends thought I never cheated on you’ I didn’t need to hear those words because I knew it all along.

I wonder if, in the eight years that have passed, I’ve been making mistakes in going for the increasingly ‘safe’ men. The ones who see board games with another couple as an acceptable Friday night activity, who don’t send me drunken text messages, and who get upset if I stay out ‘till all hours without phoning. When relationships get too close and too predictable they almost start to smother me. Suddenly we’re dependent on the other person and any shift in our own identity can undermine everything the relationship is founded on. Maybe I need that distance, those social boundaries, to retain my sense of self in a relationship.

Or maybe it’s just a phase.

Staying in a hostel in Fiji I met this random guy from my home country who was a whole lot of fun. We spent a day shopping in Nadi and almost every shop we went into assumed we were a couple.

Saleswoman: “Are you here on your honeymoon?”

[Looking at each other laughing] NO!

Him: “No we just met each other here.”

Saleswoman: [Looks at us knowingly] “oh, very romantic.”

Him: “No, I mean we just met each other this morning.”

But the best part was in a clothing store where he was buying some shirts. Looking to make an extra dollar the saleswoman was suggesting beach towels necklaces and then, finally, a matching shirt…

Me: “Look at that! Wouldn’t it be great if we had matching shirts darling?”

Him: “That would be fantastic, honey. Oh, our parents would just love to see that wouldn’t they?”

Me: “They sure would…. but I think we’ll have to give it a miss this time, thanks.”

It will be a week tomorrow since I arrived back in Canada and my bodyclock is completely fucked. I’m getting to sleep anywhere between 1am and 4am, I can’t seem to make it through the day without a nap, and I’m just get started on my work day when everyone else is finishing.

My bedroom is in the basement which makes it absolutely perfect for midday naps actually the whole apartment is kinda on the dark side and the 24/7 air conditioning means an absence of environmental clues to tell my body what time of day it is. I’ve never had jetlag this bad before and it’s seriously starting to mess with my head. I’ve decided the solution is to become an evening person.

Tomorrow night I’m heading out to see a band with a new internet-discovered friend; he seems really crazy-fun and knows all of the coolest local bars. I’m just hoping he sits on the crazy side of fun and not the crazy side of crazy because that would just be bad. I’m also signing up to an outdoor soccer league (god help the team I land in) and I’m starting Pilate’s on Thursday. If things continue this way everything (including my liver) should be in good shape by the end of the summer.

On a completely unrelated note I’m edging close to my 1 yr anniversary of being single (to be celebrated on July 1 - the day I moved out of the ex’s house and, incidentally, Canada Day). So… I - and MollyE for that matter - need celebration ideas! I refuse to make it a day about the break-up because he’s simply not worth it. Instead I want it to be a day where I feel good about myself and the single person I am. Any suggestions?

I am ever so slightly enamoured with my new city. It seems that every time I go out my front door I discover something exciting and new; today it was the mere fact that the closest bank is only a couple of short blocks away that made me smile. Yesterday it was the indie music store with the cute sales guy just two minutes from my door. Even the five hour ordeal of getting back out to the airport to clear some boxes with customs couldn’t get me down as each successful transit connection made me feel like a ‘big girl’ who knows what she’s doing.

That’s not to say I’m not having any culture shock. I had my first night out on Friday and it was great to catch up with old friends and meet new people — but — I come from a country where there is quite the rampant drinking culture. So I get back to Canada and the sitting around in bars chatting over just a couple of beers makes me feel like I’m waiting for something to happen. It’s not even conscious there’s just a part of me that thinks ‘the next place will be happening’ or ‘the shenanigans will start soon.’ But the next place always involves more civilized sitting around drinking and when I get home I wonder what happened to the night.

Or perhaps I’m still hung up on what a fun time I had in Melbourne. Like Hope I finally came up with an innocuous excuse for messaging The Charmer on Facebook. Of course I would never do anything straight forward like asking him a question or telling him what’s new in my life. No. Instead I like to up my chances for a fall by leaving it open and ambiguous. I think it’s my way of testing people - seeing if they’ll reply when they aren’t pressed to. Or perhaps I’ve seen my friends hurt too many times by the boy who doesn’t respond to their questions and this is my way of protecting myself. The Charmer happened to write back quickly with a brief anecdote free from anything that would warrant a further response from me. His reply was a mirror of what I sent and yet I still feel disappointed having fallen into my own trap.

I’m very good at making up my mind, putting my blinkers on, and doing something regardless of what others think and what the sensible option is. I’m not so good at realizing the enormity of my actions.

I’d been planning to come back to Canada for a couple of months but it wasn’t until the plane was descending that I realized the enormity of my decision. I was moving back to the other side of the world, away from my family and into a new city where I need just a few fingers to count my friends here. Suddenly I was overcome with this fear that I would be alone, that making new friends would prove impossible, that I was crazy for coming back to the country where my heart was trampled so thoroughly.

I’m exhausted and over-thinking things I tell myself It’ll feel right when I get home. Then I realize the absurdity of what I’m telling myself. ‘Home’ is an apartment I’ve found on the internet; sure the pictures look charming and I’ve heard the neighbourhood is full of character but I can’t call a place I’ve never visited ‘home.’

When I walked in the door it was home. I felt automatically at ease with the vintage furniture, charmed with my new sitting room and relaxed in my little TV room. There is a study that is perfect for my work and the kitchen has inspired me to get back into some ‘real’ cooking.

Walking along the busy street just around the corner from my home the edges of my mouth kept tugging into a smile as I discovered all of my favourite things virtually on my doorstep: a Pilate’s studio, a fish & chip shop, a cozy cafe and lots of shops filled with handmade clothes and quirky furniture.

I’ve been searching for my ‘place’ for a while but I guess that home is a feeling you can’t control. It’s that sense of belonging, it’s a haven where nothing can touch you, but for me it’s also a sense of possibility. I may not know many people in this city but I’m looking forward to discovering what the crevices of the local cafe and the rest of my neighbourhood have in store for me.

Amidst my frantic last-minute packing I talked to the man about the job. Well it turned out they really did take this long to sign and seal it because the committee was at an impasse. The majority wanted a guy who had interests that more neatly fell into the job description and the minority wanted me. Eventually the minority gave in and while they might be able to find some temporary work for me they simply couldn’t find the funds for another permanent position. Evidently the dept is a little torn up about the disagreement so it hasn’t been an easy time for them. It’s disappointing but it’s closure.

The holiday has begun and I’ve been drinking and laughing and catching up with old friends. And maybe, just maybe, I’ve met someone I kinda like. Of course he’s in a city I’ll never live.

So I’ve been road-tripping the last few days and cleverly managed to leave my cell phone behind. I got back this evening and who had called half an hour after I left? The people about the job that I had given up expecting to hear back about. Who else would it be?

Of course I know that I can’t have got the job because it has been too long. And I know that I can’t have got the job because he called once and left a message… no email, no chasing up after me through my colleagues etc. And I know that I can’t have got the job because he explicitly said he called to ‘chat.’ People don’t call to ‘chat’ when they want to offer you a job.

But my ability to suspend disbelief is unparalleled and for now there’s that little piece of my heart that is still saying “maybe, maybe” no matter what my head tells it. The torture is the 6+ hrs I have to wait until work hours start over that side of the world… more if I don’t manage to keep awake until 1am. And in the mean time I have going away drinks, washing, and a hell of a lot of organizing to do before I leave tomorrow to keep me distracted. I haven’t even managed to book accommodation in Fiji yet!

Over the weekend I had the talk with my mum. The talk where all of my resentments and frustrations about the way she raised me came boiling over. For the first time she acknowledged that childhood for me wasn’t easy and that she hadn’t been able to give me everything I needed.

Today I traced the footsteps of my childhood as I went hiking to a secluded beach; this was a track I would follow with my parents at least a couple of times every summer from a toddler until I was 11 or 12. As I walked I noticed the tree trunk that had fallen years ago and was firmly implanted between two edges of the cliff. My dad would always do a tight-rope walking act along that trunk while we stood and watched with our stomachs in our throats. Almost two decades later the trunk has gradually slipped down the cliff sitting firmly out of reach of any parents with a death wish. But that wasn’t the only thing that had changed. I noticed as I walked that the bridges my brother and I would devotedly count were fewer in number. And the path that took us to the crest of a hill where, exhausted, we would stop and drink cordial from the blue plastic cups my mum would pack had been re-routed to follow an easier course around the mountains.

I made my way down to the beach and kicked off my shoes as soon as I hit the sand leaving them lying by the path telling people that this was my beach. I was leaving my shoes at my front door. The beach was empty but for one man who, thinking I hadn’t seen him, took the sheltered route back kindly leaving the beach to me alone.

Other things had changed. The black sand has been diluted by white sand that felt cooler under my feet and the stream that used to form a good sized pool for me to swim in has all but dried up. I sat under the shade of a tree and remember sitting there once, years ago, with D. in what was a surreal weekend as I got the man I had always wanted more than any other all to myself. Then I noticed that further down the beach another stream flowed into the ocean and was slowly forming its own lagoon that, in another five or ten years, other children would play in.

I expected a lot from my mum growing up and I know I spent a lot of time pushing her away but I don’t think I can forgive her for not trying harder to give me what I needed. I can’t let got of the decades of resentment I have for the fact that my brother got all of the attention and care he needed without hesitation while I struggled on seemingly alone. As for my mum she, in her infinitely irritating spiritual way, claims that we choose our parents and, in my case, I needed her and my Dad to learn how to be independent, to be resilient, to be capable. But sometimes I get tired of being the tough one sometimes I want to be the one that people put their arms around and dote on and love.

As I left the beach I thought about my childhood and how far I’ve come. How I’ve arrived at a destination better and more beautiful than I could ever imagine. But I can’t forget the path we took; that I had to go over the hills to get here. As I walked back I noticed that the old path over the hills was completely grown over. I couldn’t even see where it once met up with the track I now walked. I think this means that the hard years are over. It’s up to me now to let memories of the painful times grow over.

I’m going to preface this post by explaining that my job opportunities are narrow. Narrow as in my dream job comes available maybe a couple dozen times a year. Throughout the world. And of those jobs the ones that I have a realistic chance of maybe getting an interview for number closer to about six positions a year. All of this means that if a great looking job comes up then I apply for it regardless of whatever shitty place it’s in. Well… I do have my limits and Winnipeg might just be one of them.

For now I’m working in positions that are the stepping-stone to this dream job and I get to live, pretty much, in places I love. The only problem is that these aren’t permanent jobs meaning I can’t put roots down and I can’t plan for the future because I don’t know where it’ll be. This is part of the reason I like blogging - it’s my consistency despite all of the moving around I’m doing. And right now I’m really holding out for that permanent home; for getting in a position where I can volunteer with local organizations, find a favourite pilates instructor, get to know the owner of the corner store even.

But sometimes I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I should be choosing where I want to live and working from there. It’s something I’ve been considering more and more after meeting a woman (in the same field as me) who has done exactly that. She fell in love with a town: with it’s culture, it’s music scene and its sensibilities and rather than pursue a career elsewhere she is starting up her own company based from right out of that town. This probably sounds pretty normal and rational but for our field it’s really quite rebellious and she’s had to endure a bit of scorn because of her decision.

I want to be settled. I want to live in a thriving small-medium sized city with a great music scene close to the ocean; I’m just not sure that I can compromise my career to do that. I’m not sure I’ll be able to feel fulfilled without that dream job but at the same time I’m not sure I’ll find my dream job in a city I can be happy in.

According to the okcupid quiz machine generator thingee I’m ‘less desiring of love’ !!! Clearly they need to add a question “do you have a blog devoted solely to the absence of love in your life?” Or “do you bore people regularly with your rants about singledom?”

Oh, and apparently I’m also kinkier. I’m guessing they mean ‘kinky’ as in ‘going without sex so long your virginity grows back’ because that is just the most out-there thing ever.

As an aside I’m also more compassionate, more independent, and more socially-free i.e. I’m a mass of contradictions. At least they got that right.

And, yes, the number of quizzes I complete is positively correlated with the amount of work I should be doing (hence the lack of time to post about the absence of love in my life).

I facebook stalk my crush. He’s only averagely cute, but he has a beard, he’s stunningly smart, and he has gorgeous brown eyes that have lingered too long on mine at least a dozen times. I’ve never spoken to him. And now we sit at different ends of the globe. We have a mutual facebook friend which is sweet torture; I could write a message on the friend’s wall and sit next to my crush for all of facebook eternity. But what good is that when he still can’t hold my hand?

I’ve been lucky; I’ve had some amazing relationships with some brilliant people. There have been those moments where I’ve looked at someone and felt like my heart is so bursting with love it could last for a lifetime. And I’ve had those moment in-between; the one’s where you’re sitting drinking your morning coffee and sharing the Sunday paper, or, when you’re walking nowhere but hand-in-hand, together. Mostly, though, I forget these moments or they get eclipsed by the moments at the end; the moments when we’re yelling, crying, hurting.

I was searching through the photographs on my computer today when I came across a bunch of movies shot with my camera. They were just clips, really, of seemingly mundane things: those moments in-between. And when I started watching I couldn’t stop. Suddenly I was reliving the Easter Egg Hunt of ’06 where I was searching madly through the house for the chocolate Mr Metro had hidden. Then in ’07 I’m shovelling snow and he’s taping through the window commenting humorously on my agility and berating me for taking a break. There was love in that voice.

The most in-between moments hurt exponentially worse. The little cousin who came to stay shot movie after movie of the cats playing all the while we were living in the background – drinking our coffee, chatting to the boyfriend’s mother, encouraging the little cousin, laughing. I was happy. In the background I noticed the colour we’d painstakingly painted on the walls, the furniture we’d chosen for the living room, the tablecloth I’d taken from apartment to apartment… it all came together to create what had been our home. A happy home.

It’s strange to have such a tangible reminder that there once was love. It’s so much easier to think of the way that he would nitpick, or to use his bad behaviour post-break-up to feel good about being single. I’m great at revisionist history. Take the perfect relationship and I could probably turn it into a Married with Children episode. But mostly I don’t give it much thought; I don’t linger on the time we would spend sitting in the backyard drinking beer. I don’t linger on anything, really. But now a part of me wishes I could sit down and watch him watch these clips to see if he feels anything and to ask him where things went wrong.

So I watch these movies alone and I see that, for a time, I was the centre of his life hunting the eggs, shovelling the drive, drunk in the hotel room. And I watch these movies again and I see his feet once or twice or he picks up a cat toy and throws it but, mostly, he wasn’t at the centre of my movies. My movies starred plastic people lost in his armpit or cats being manipulated to fit my mildly amusing plots that make me laugh uncontrollably. My life is centred around the world that I create for myself so, as much as it stings watching those clips, my plot never really needed him as the central character.

With these very fingers I am typing with I have done what five travel agents failed at: getting me a reasonably priced ticket back to Canada that stops in Melbourne (my second favourite city and home to a growing number of my friends) as well as in a nice relaxing little Pacific Island. That’s right: I’m going to spend an entire week sitting my little ass down on a beach. Okay, I might get up and go to the bar from time to time or maybe even *gasp* for a swim. But mostly I’ll be enjoying my first proper holiday in years [and doing my best to ignore all of the couples fawning over each other].

But back to my rant: When did travel agents stop trying to make travel easier? Aren’t they supposed to say yes to everything rather than telling me I can stop in one place or the other. Oh, and the best part: when a travel agent told me to save money by booking the first of three connecting flights that would get me back to Canada myself. Uh the whole point of going to you was so I’m not completely screwed when my first flight is delayed, cancelled or bombed. My connecting flights are all booked with the same airline so fingers crossed my travel dramas are restricted to fighting off lecherous backpacking Brits. Oh, I’ve also got a nice little trip to London and Ireland planned with a friend for August because one holiday just isn’t enough. Notice I would never say anything derogatory about Irish men.

Sometimes when I’m lying in bed at night or staring out the window of a bus I think back to when I had someone and they had me. All of me. And I feel completely alone. Sometimes this feeling lingers until it wears away at me and makes me feel vulnerable and needy. Sometimes this feeling makes me do stupid things like climb into bed with a friend in the hopes that if he holds me it will feel better. Of course it doesn’t. All it does is make me feel bad for playing with his feelings to quench my own loneliness.

Mostly I run, you see, I always have an out. When things start getting boring and I start to fear the emptiness of the future I leave. Before I can be disappointed and before I can slip into a deep rut I’m out the door. I don’t know how to stay in one place when things start to stagnate. I don’t know how to get out of that rut without complete upheaval.

Buddy [after analysing his love life to pieces]: “And what about you; are there any problems of yours we can fix?”

Me [laughing]: “I would need a man in my life to have a problem!”

Buddy: “Well maybe if you stayed in one place for long enough you’d give it a chance to happen. When you keep running off every few months you can’t expect much else.”

Me: “Well until I find my dream job there’s not much point getting attached to anywhere or anyone.”

Buddy: “But maybe you’ll meet the man of your dreams and decide to stay here.”

Me: “I’m waiting for the job; men are a dime a dozen.”

And yet how long has it been since the mere thought of someone made me smile?

Guys think of sex 100+ times a day.* Well while they were thinking about sex today I was having much more productive conversations with myself…

* This is a complete stab in the dark; my googling fingers are having a day off.

Why is that guy driving a golf cart on the motorway? Is it legal to drive a golf cart on the motorway? It doesn’t have a seat-belt so it can’t be legal; but motorbikes don’t have seat-belts and they’re legal. Oh my god he’s switching into the fast lane… and holding up traffic HA! God I wish I owned a golf cart.

I seriously have the biggest boobs in the world. They are bursting out of my A-cups. I could be Pamela Anderson; go period boobs. It must be weird to have big boobs all the time, I mean, even a B-cup must feel huuuge. Would it be false advertising to hook up with someone while I’ve got my period boobs? It’s kinda like wearing a wonder bra; what if a guy notices and then the next week says “hey, where did your boobs go?”

I was six offices down from The Workmate today and I never even thought about him. Weird. Am I over my little crush? Maybe I’m depressed? Maybe I’m so depressed that I can’t even get excited about a boy? No, I’m just preoccupied with my work. I’d definitely make out with him if he asked me to.

Who bothers buying movie tickets in advance; it’s not like it’s a new release. Imagine being that organised… I would drive myself crazy. Oh god it’s because he wants the ‘date’ to go smoothly. Wow. That’s insane. He can’t really like me that much can he? He did email while I was away. Oh. My. God. He has a crush on me. Like the kind I get for other people. NO! Why would anybody like me  that much? But why would he go to so much effort if he didn’t? Maybe I should set the record straight? Nah, I’m leaving in a couple of weeks; I can avoid him till then.

Hmmm if I dress up for the Debauchery Party and it sucks then I’ll look like a complete bitch for leaving after half an hour. I could dress normally and claim I’m trying to de-stigmatize prostitution. Yeah, that won’t work. I could wear a bandanna and call myself a pirate. Maybe I’ll win the prize for the most half-assed costume. Bandanna, boots over jeans, and slutty top. Sorted.

An old neighbour who knew me as a giggly little girl and gangly high school student dropped by today. She’s in her 80s now but looks no different from when I saw her what must have been ten years ago. She has lost a husband and a daughter in that time. She is one of those invisible people that is always there watching over my life but completely without my knowledge. She hears everything through my parents so no doubt she gets a distorted version of the distorted reality I present to them. What she said to me completely disarmed me:

“I always ask about you, you know, you’ve been doing some amazing things and I’m really, really proud of you. I love hearing about what you’re doing; you’ve traveled all over the world and done things that I never imagined. Keep it up, keep it up.”

And she left blowing a kiss at me as I stood in the doorway thinking of a time six months ago when I felt the same way. Now I feel like a fraud because of how little I have achieved in the last few months. Because I don’t seem to be able to motivate myself the way I used to. Because my mind wanders so much when I sit down and try and write. Because I feel like I’m not being productive enough and letting people down. I love that I have the flexibility to work when I want and focus on the things I’m passionate about but sometimes I think it does more harm than good. Sometimes I think I need a cheerleader, some kind of concrete deadline, someone else to beat me up if I don’t do good because I’m tired of beating myself up.

Some of you might remember that I was flown overseas for an interview a couple of months back. Some of you might have even been thinking “oooh I wonder if they’re going to call today and offer her the job” every morning when you woke up. Many of you possibly thought “humph I guess she didn’t get the job and doesn’t want to admit it.” And most of you probably just thought “Is that girl EVER going to meet someone.”

Well this is my official ‘I didn’t get the job’ post. Not that they ever actually got around to telling me. I haven’t completely ruled out turning up at their workplace on the allocated start date dressed in my best clothes with papers in hand. Surely if they haven’t told me they don’t want me then they’re really just playing hard to get? So maybe I’ll go in, park myself in the hallway, say hi to everyone, and then after a couple of weeks complain that my pay isn’t going through. I’m sure that will work just swell.

I would probably be more bummed about not getting the job if they had told me right when I was fresh out of the interview and all excited about moving to that city. I’ve had enough time now that I’m disappointed but okay with it. Life goes on and other opportunities will come along.

I’ve always had this fascination with watching my boyfriends dry themselves after a shower. Everyone has their own routine. Me? I’m a ’start with the arms and work my way down as fast as possible’ kinda girl. I hate being cold so it’s a mad flurry to get my clothes on quick as I can (at least at this time of year).

The thing is that being a girl all you do is dab the towel between your legs and bam you’re dry. Men have that whole external sex organ thing going on which means the everyday drying process becomes a dance centred around drying the penis. At least for me watching it is.

The first boy I lived with did not understand my fascination with watching him dry off one little bit. In fact, I used to make up excuses to go into the bathroom right after the shower turned off to figure out how exactly he went about drying his, um, entirety. *knock, knock* “can I get my make up?” <cue none too subtle look at his nether regions>. He was very slow and methodical, everything dried in the right order.

The second boy I lived with was happy for me to watch; I would sit on top of the closed toilet lid and giggle like mad as he juggled his meat and potatoes making sure everything was good and dry. It was an artful, drawn out process perhaps for my own benefit?

It’s weird, I know, but it’s these everyday things that make a relationship. I have a really bad memory for the daily relationship routine; I just don’t seem to hang on to the details the way that most people do. I guess that’s why I get over break-ups quickly. It means that when I do remember the everyday details they’re even more special no matter how mundane.

When these little scenes flash inside my head it makes me wonder what stupid little things my exes remember me by. Is there a boy sitting there somewhere thinking wistfully…

…of the way that I snuggle down in bed and pull the blankets up around my ears.

…or the terrible jokes I made that would have me (and only me) laughing until I cried.

…or the nights that I would drag him to bed exhausted only to keep him up yammering until 1am.

I hope they think of me more than I think of them.

Lee: ‘This morning on the bus I was sitting next to this twenty-year old plumber from Ireland and he was so, so cute. He had this guitar and claimed he couldn’t play but I told him “by the time you’re thirty you’ll be a rock-star”. I had to keep reminding myself “he’s just twenty: hands off.”‘

Later that day we met a group of guys in one of the local pubs and amongst them was a kid who turned out to be just nineteen. He was going through the skinny stage and to glance at you would assume he was a regular, slightly geeky teenager. The girls were paying little attention to him instead fawning over his hotter and dumber older brother. But the nineteen year old was one of those people that unfolds before your eyes. As he asked more questions he got cheekier and his brown eyes started to sparkle. His skinny face was suddenly charming as he discussed the hedonistic holiday plans only a teenager can perfectly pull off. But even his teenage youth was eclipsed by the confidence, intelligence, and presence that allowed him to relate to anyone.

How is it that a nineteen year old can hold the sort of promise that so many men in their late twenties and early thirties are missing? I guess we all lose that naive optimism and rejection wears away at our ability to open ourselves up to the world. In fact it’s those men who do wear their hearts on their sleeves that women often pass-by. I want to be able to enjoy life for what it is and take opportunities without first worrying about protecting myself from hurt and embarrassment. I think we need to stop letting ourselves become jaded by life experience and let ourselves sparkle again.

Yes, I’m leaving tomorrow; No I won’t be back here anytime soon; Yes, if I’m ever here on a Tuesday I’ll come to this pub and find you. But a part of me will be hoping you’ve left your dead-end job and this sleepy town for bigger things and those girls who are overlooking you now will be kicking themselves.

As we left I felt a pang and looked back at him. He was looking back at me. Oh, and he had that scruffy facial hair that always lures me in… if only he wasn’t nineteen.

When I was fourteen I wore my hair short with lots of layers and my wavy hair flicking up perfectly around my ears. This was back in the day when I wanted my hair to flick up. But then one day things went terribly, terribly wrong…

It was the school holidays and I was due for a chop so I booked my appointment and began the 25 minute hike to the hairdresser [I was too cool to ride a bike by that age]. My regular hairdresser wasn’t there so I did my best to explain what I wanted to the fill-in and showed her a vaguely accurate picture before sitting myself down. She began cutting. And she kept cutting. And cutting. And cutting until I had a glorified bowl cut. All of the bits I had specifically told her I wanted long were cut short and the layers I’d asked for basically went in reverse.

I was stunned. I looked at myself. I blinked. I blinked harder. My bottom lip began to tremble and my chin scrunched up. Then she pulled out the comb and started teasing. Yes, she teased. It was at that moment I knew even she recognized it was a irreversibly horrid, old-ladies hair-cut. The tears slipped down my cheek and wouldn’t stop. When I went up to pay the assistant looked at me with big eyes and asked if I was okay. For fear of blubbering audibly all I could do was nod and look at the floor. I ran out of the shops and straight into the bathrooms where I patted and wet and patted my hair back into a non-teased state. I took a couple of hair ties out of my bag and did my best to tug what was left of my hair into pig-tails. It was a half-assed attempt as most of it was so short it leaped free straight away.

I tidied myself up and began the long, long walk home. Up the road I wandered ignoring the dog that began barking from a nearby property so completely occupied was I in my own self-pity. Then the barking got nearer. And nearer. Before I knew it I was half-running, half-skipping up the road, dog in pursuit as it snapped at my bottom. Any last desire to remain comported left me and I let out a sorrowful wail not because it hurt but because I had the worst haircut in the world and a dog had just bitten me on the bum. In public. I was staring down the barrel of a month’s worth of the worst kind of teenage humiliation possible!

Which leads me to ask: why are hairdressers so evil? Do they give me bad haircuts on purpose? Is there something I do when I walk in the door that upsets them? And, having got my hair cut last week I have to ask, since when did ‘layers’ become tiers i.e. two tiers. That’s right, I’m not quite sure if what I’m currently sporting can be classed as a fe-mullet but I can tell you it’s bad. Very bad. The first tier ends right about the bottom of my ears and the second somewhere just below my shoulders. “I wanted to get a little of the weight off” she said. A little?! She took half my freakin’ hair away. And now I don’t know whether to cut it off the second tier and deal with a fairly bad short haircut or to continue to hiding it in ponytails and under hats. Oh, and as I walked out the door she gave me free product worth a third of the cost of the haircut. Yup, I didn’t have to cry for her to recognize it was a bad haircut.

I was talking not two days ago
To a certain bartender Im lucky to know
I asked henry my bartending friend
If I should go on dating unfamous men

And henry said
Youre lucky to even know me
Youre lucky to be alive
Youre lucky to be drinking here for free
Cause Im a sucker for your lucky pretty eyes

Liz Phair - Polyester Bride

How is it that almost every woman I know has dated or slept with a barman? Surely there are more salesmen in the world but I don’t know anyone who has slept with a salesman; by my calaculations this alone must make all barmen man-whores. But they’re just so damn hot. Don’t pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about… think back to your university days, or even to the man behind the bar of your local. He’s kind of hot isn’t he? You’ve flirted once or twice haven’t you? You made eye contact just a little too long when you accepted that free drink didn’t you? He pinned you against the wall in the storeroom and made out with you. Oh, wait, that’s just my fantasy.

My first bartending cush led to an embarrassing year of what must have verged on bar-stalking. He was a mohawked student who was irresistibly quirky and while he couldn’t get away with giving me free drinks I was always given the top-shelf gin. That’s the thing about a bar-tender crush: the progress of your relationship is always measured in the freebies so when things cool off it’s back to pulling out the ol’ purse. Sadly, by the time my bartending crush got the opportunity to pull me into the storeroom (okay he really just asked me on a barman date) I was firmly attached to someone else.

And then, of course, there was my Favourite Barman who was a source of amusement for a couple of weeks but my heart still remains the property of the Hot Hot Barman. One of these days I must go back to that bar and collect that heart of mine.

Now, sordid readers, I know there are at least one or two of you out there have also succumbed to the charm, generosity, and flirtations of a good bartender so do share your stories with me…

http://www.osorhan.com/bigo/index.php

Don’t you just love that honeymoon phase of a relationship when just the thought of your sweetheart ties your belly in knots and sets your heart pounding? I don’t. I despise it. I despise it because it’s always happening to someone else and last night it cost me my dinner.

That’s right, Jess met a new man and so the dinner plans we’d had for over a week became dinner with me and the new man. She wanted me to grant my blessing over the union. But - somewhere between our phone call in the afternoon and me arriving at her place with an empty stomach - dinner got shelved. Evidently he was eating before heading out and she had failed to explain that our plans were to go for dinner.

Oh and to make things even better he was boring as hell. They actually made each other boring. Instead of being the interesting, vivacious woman that she is she sat there demurely not telling her usual stories or making jokes. It was so bad I had to draw on my back-catalogue of cat-stories to ease the awkwardness as they sat there a metre apart stealing glances at each other. When they began chatting about who was leaving which accounting firm I covertly text messaged my buddy who kindly came and rescued me from the awkwardness.

The worst part: Once I had made my excuses it became clear that she had rented a video to watch with him and so was quite happy to watch me shuffle out the door. And today she will call wanting a detailed analysis of why they are so well suited to each other.

The best part: After we left my buddy and I sat around taking the piss out of each other for the next couple of hours which was a lot of fun. Especially since the barman gave me grass infused vodka for free mmmm grass.