white girl

I am faithful to Taylor Swift

So, I posted my manifesto about how I am ready to show vulnerability here. I’m ready for the feels. Feels, I’m coming after you. Except I think I went after the wrong feels. I thought I was pursuing the happy, exciting feels; instead I ended up with the embarrassed feels.

In my latest attempt at resuscitating my dating life, I invited Beaut over for supper. This was significant. My inability to cook has been well documented (here). When my BFF Dynamo heard of my plans to cook for a guy, he was pissed. 7 years of friendship, and I’d never invited Dynamo over, using the excuse that I valued his friendship too much to risk poisoning it and him with salmonella. Dynamo called the rest of our posse and invited them over to my place for a Holiday Supper in December. As he put it, “friends before dicks” (clever wordplay on the universal wisdom “chicks before dicks”), except that he preferred to wait until after my supper date to find out whether or not Beaut survived. Just in case.

I’m not gonna lie, I was stressed leading up to that supper. I wanted to put together a menu that would respect Beaut’s dietary restrictions (Honestly. What happened to the good ol’ days where allergies, intolerances and pickinesses just didn’t exist?! Beaut doesn’t like avocadoes!!! I almost rescinded my invitation when I found out. I have standards, you know. I will NOT be friends with someone who does not like avocadoes. Unless he is hot and he makes me laugh and returns my text messages. Obvi.) Not only that, but I wanted the chosen menu to be tasty and something I could produce without burning down my home.

I didn’t burn my home down. But it was close. I dropped a knife, nearly amputating a toe; I ran around my appartment forgetting what I was looking for (kinda like a dog chasing its own tail); and mysteriously a cover on one of the pots fell off with a conversation-ending loud bang.

I didn’t poison Beaut. That’s a win right there. However, I suspect he left my place, went directly to McDonald’s and ate a trio. He didn’t say that was what he would do, but I have my suspicions. You see, during supper I discovered that Beaut has excellent manners.

In my panic-stricken hysterical state, I’d forgotten to change my playlist prior to Beaut’s arrival – I had it set to my favorite set of pop songs, in an attempt to calm myself down while prepping for supper. A playlist that most tweens would dig. To my horror, mid-appetizer, Taylor Swift’s Love Story started playing. I surreptitiously changed it to the next song – which happened to be Taylor Swift’s You Belong With Me. Red faced, I changed the song again, and of course, it happened to be an angry Kelly Clarkson breakup song.  Praying to the music gods, I changed songs one last time, and relaxed when I saw it was an Adele song. I tried to laugh off the disaster, and Beaut reassured me that he hadn’t even noticed the music – as long as there was something playing in the background, and the conversation was interesting, the music didn’t matter. I relaxed somewhat. But not enough to think of anything to say. Of course, at that moment, the Verve Pipe’s Freshman song started playing. Beaut blinked, “What’s that?” That, sir, is one of the best songs for angsty white teens suffering from pentup emotion regarding a life event most will hopefully never experience (abortion/suicide) – clearly a demographic I can relate to, because I am very mature for my age.

Once again, Beaut tried to reassure me that my musical taste was irrelevant – he was having fun. I had almost started to believe him when a Carlos Santana song began, and Beaut involuntarily exclaimed, “Now THAT is a good song!”

Mortifying.

BUT WAIT. Later, Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car played. BEAUT DIDN’T KNOW THE SONG OR THE ARTIST. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!?!

That’s RIGHT. I’m judging you, bro. My taste in music is eclectic. Also? I LIKE AVOCADOES. So there.

#standards

#nevercookingagain

#nexttimeIlljustdotakeoutandlie

#vulnerabilityisoverrated

#taylorswiftismybae

P.S. I refuse to acknowledge the similarities between this story and Strawberry’s Bieber-fiasco.

 

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Smoking and sales taxes

Anxiety and cigarettes. And pot.

On my way home from the gym, as we were waiting for the metro to arrive, Cap and I discussed my slight tendency to over-analyse, over-think, and freak out. In particular, I described how I’d spent the entire day worrying about how to tell my prospective date that salsa dancing, on a Monday night, at 10pm, was not my idea of fun because it was past my bedtime – and how using the phrase “past my bedtime” was the opposite of sexy, so how could I possibly communicate the source of my anxiety (timing of the date, and not the actual date itself) without forever branding myself as lame? To make things worse, I had willingly agreed to this nocturnal date, in the hopes that I would miraculously find myself able to survive on 5 hours sleep. The knowledge that I had no one to blame but myself for this uncomfortable scenario added to my dread, and I handled it smoothly by avoiding my date’s text messages and only rescheduling 1 hour before the appointed date time. #Maturity

Cap listened to me with a smile, “I’m surprised you’ve never tried smoking.” I embarked on a convoluted explanation about my asthma, and how smoke is my trigger, when I noticed a pronounced twinkle in Cap’s eye. I paused, mid-way through a description of the symptoms of an asthma attack, “You meant smoking pot, not smoking cigarettes, didn’t you?” Cap just grinned: no point in answering the obvious. #VanillaFTW

White people don’t pay sales taxes – a sales pitch

While we were on the metro, we noticed a black guy approach a lonely white teenage boy. I assumed, at first, based on the body language, that the black guy was asking for spare change. But then he started dancing. Drunk, I further assumed. But then, I saw him and the teenager exchange cell phone numbers. Realizing that whatever it was that I was witnessing was infinitely more unusual than the standard metro panhandling, I waited for the next developments.

Black guy wrapped up his convo with the teenager and turned to approach Cap and I. He was youngish (25?), and definitely not a homeless drunkard. I felt a twinge of shame for how unflattering my assumptions had been, until he spoke, “Hey, you guys, if I can take a minute of your time. I’m a musician, a singer, and I’m selling my album today. White people don’t have to pay sales taxes,” pausing as I broke into shocked laughter, “I’ve got nothing against my black folks, but I gotta hustle, and this is my best sales pitch.” He turned to Cap, “Bro, you not full white, I can see that, so you gonna have to pay some taxes. What are you?” Cap confirmed that was not, in fact, “full white”: he was a solid mix of everything – Jamaican, French Canadian, Tunisian and Irish. Singer dude seemed a little taken aback at that mix, repeating it a few times, “I’m gonna need a calculator to work out just how white you are.” I suggested that perhaps if a calculator was required, it was just too much effort and he should just waive Cap’s taxes entirely. “Nah, man, it’s so complicated, imma charge him double taxes!”

Next, it was my turn to be analyzed, “Where you from, you’re not from here – you too white. What are you? Irish or something? White girl, you’re a real white girl. Russian? You don’t look Russian, are you sure? Eeeesh, Russians. Are you all White Supremacy? You are?! Ok imma be nice to you. No sales taxes for you.”

Having established the basis for our respective taxation, he then asked us to buy his album – for only $5. Cap politely refused, because he didn’t have any cash on him. I declined because I am a White Supremacist.

As Singer Dude got off at the next metro stop, the teenager suddenly ran after him, wanting to know if Singer Dude had Instagram. Upon receiving Singer’s assurances that he would be added right away on Instagram, White Teenage Boy sat back down, satisfied.

I guess the “no sales tax” sales pitch really worked for him.

I am a ratchet leader in the accounting world

Y’all remember that I am an accountant, yeah? A pretentious bougie fancy accountant, as accountantish as can be, despite my best attempts to pretend I am cool?

Ladies and gents and specifically everybody at my G gym, I give you exhibit A:

i taught the ratchet

What  a perfect tribute to my leadership skills and sway in the accountant community. I did, in fact, teach the word “ratchet” to Elisabeth and many of my coworkers, many months ago. I’m honored to have made a lasting impact on the profession.

Nene, are you proud?

Of course, the true irony here is that there couldn’t have been a song less suited to me, except for that specific lyric quoted by Elisabeth – that’s pretty accurate. Duh.

I didn’t understand how to properly Vegas: Vanilla style!

On day 3 of our Vegas trip, DD and I went to a shooting range and shot some machine guns. And shot-guns. And AK-47s. And a handgun – so quaint and wee! Let me tell ya, that stuff wakes you up WAY better than a cup of coffee!

Afterwards, I dragged DD to Tao Beach Club, a small exclusive pool at the Venetian. I was feeling sociable and wanted to get my flirt on while getting some rays. My eye was immediately drawn by the small group of people playing beach-ball in the pool. I nudged DD and told her to check out the hot guy, meaning the white guy who looked like a low-key version of Brody Jenner. DD, assuming I was talking about his friend, the only black guy in the pool, agreed that he was definitely my type. Sigh – no matter how often I exclaim that I don’t have a type, my friends persist in disbelieving me.

Approximately 4 minutes after DD and I settled down on the ledge of the pool, someone hit the beach-ball too hard, and it flew towards me. I playfully hit it back to the group, thereby earning myself a smile from the black dude. Within 20 minutes, that beach-ball was making its way to me with surprising frequency; DD gave me a knowing smile. I soon was an active participant from my seat on the ledge of the pool. I didn’t rush to join in – I had some tanning to do, and a drink to enjoy before ramping up the flirting. #priorities

(Only in Vegas: at Tao, all alcoholic beverages must be consumed on the deck or in the pool but alongside the ledge, possibly to avoid messes like we experienced the day before. The lifeguards, who walked around with handcuffs dangling from their belts, only used their whistles to aggressively call out any guest bold enough to venture into the pool with a drink in hand. These same lifeguards, so alert, so disciplined, did not react whatsoever when a douchebag decided to dive in headfirst into the 3-foot deep crowded pool. Because, you know, a spinal injury would cramp the party much less than someone puking in the pool.)

Post tanning and libations, I joined the beach-ball crew. Inevitably, black dude (henceforth referred to as “LA”… I never got his real name!) struck up a blatant flirtation with me. His Brody Jenner lookalike friend (“Brody2.0”) clearly had his eye on a cute friendly brunette in a pink bikini. During one of the pauses during the game, LA chatted me up; his flirting style was overt, silly and harmless – the kind of flirting I can respond to with my eyes closed. The perfect way to spend a sunny afternoon in Vegas. Until this exchange:

Baby girl, when are you leaving Vegas? Tomorrow? Aw, baby girl, I’m leaving later today, but having seen you, I’m strongly considering delaying my flight by a day, what do you think?

Think?! I think that is a terrible line. Despite knowing it was bullshit, my brain went into full overdrive:

Why would he say that? That’s not cool. I can’t handle this kind of pressure, why can’t we just flirt, make out and be done with this? Oh lord, I am overreacting. I hate overreacting. He can’t realize I am overreacting, that would kill all the fun. Goddamnit, why did he have to say that, I AM FREAKING OUT.

Ignoring my brain, I continued flirting with LA – he was fun and cute. However, just to make sure he understood who he was dealing with, I warned him I was very vanilla. Taken aback, he asked DD whether or not that was true. Much to my relief, DD immediately confirmed it, and then blithely added, “Vanilla, but she’s been known to enjoy her chocolate sprinkles.” 

Which, effectively peaked LA’s interest like nothing I had done before. Every guy likes a challenge, right?

Meanwhile, Brody2.0 was making serious progress with Pink Bikini; coy fondling in the pool, the odd neck-nibble. LA watched approvingly, and then confided in me that Pink Bikini was married. Sure enough, I soon noticed her wedding ring. Noticing I was upset, LA explained that they had already discussed it: Brody2.0 was aware that he probably wouldn’t score, but it was still a worthwhile gamble to him.

At that moment, my enjoyment of Vegas sharply diminished. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” suddenly seemed a bit too pathetic for me. While Pink Bikini hadn’t swapped spit with Brody2.0, or technically cheated, it was obvious to me that had her hubby witnessed her antics, he would have been pissed. And the fact that guys were cool with her just confirmed my cynical view that most men are pigs. I didn’t want to witness any of it – from her suspended morals, to the guys’ willingness to oblige her.

Still, I tried to ignore it, and enjoy my flirtation, and calm my mind every time LA joked about his flight. Neither he nor I were married, so we could flirt/fondle all we wanted, right? DD definitely thought so, she took me aside and told me to “RELAX, and have fun for once!!”

Fun. Ok. No problem.

When the DJ suddenly released a hundred beach balls into the small pool, that seemed to be the signal for everyone to simultaneously hook up. The pool, which had previously been largely empty with people lounging alongside the edges, was suddenly filled with couples aggressively making out. I was so perplexed at the correlation between beach-balls and hookups, that it took me several minutes to notice that I found it all very trashy. Possibly because LA was upping his moves on me, and willy-nilly, I was enjoying being found explicitly attractive, I was 2 cm away from his mouth before realizing I was one kiss away from being one of those trashy couples. Playing up being a tease, I avoided kissing him and when LA went to get drinks, I asked DD to help me extricate myself from this uncomfortable scenario.

She told me to grab my stuff, and we walked out of the pool. Confused, I questioned whether or not we should say goodbye, as we had just spent 4 hours partying with LA and Brody2.0. Patiently, she told me Brody2.0 didn’t give 2 shits about either of us, since neither one of us was Pink Bikini, and could I please walk faster? LA was looking for us.

And that is how I handled Vegas. Vanilla ftw!

Looking back, I’m embarrassed at my inability to navigate that situation with grace. But I’m grateful that DD is such a good friend – she accepts my Vanilla-streak better than I do myself.

The rest of the trip:

 

I didn’t understand how to properly Vegas: Shmoney dance

So y’all know about the Shmoney dance, obviously. Obviously.

Well, folks, after months of practice, I was pretty proud of my Shmoney skillz. With a z, y’all. Because I have street cred, bruh.

So when the DJ played songs with some sick beats at the Vegas pool party, I busted out my moves.

Let me share my hard-earned wisdom: IT IS REALLY HARD TO DANCE PROVOCATIVELY IN A POOL. “White girl drowning” is not a good look.

Even Elmo has more game than me.

 

 

That time I went bathing suit shopping… and came home with a book

I am not a runner. The thought of all that bone-rattling effort makes my joints ache. Which is why, when I signed up for a 10km run in Quebec city last summer, friends and family were somewhat perplexed: was I sure I would put in the required training? Enthusiastically, I assured them I would: I was committed.

Yeah, no, turns out I wasn’t. I went running a total of 4 times prior to that race: the highlight of my training happened the day I decided I needed to recover from the exertion of getting dressed in my running gear – I took a book and sat at a terrasse at the nearby coffee shop, and read outside in the toasty sun. Unfortunately, the book was engrossing, and I wasn’t wearing a hat, so all that exposure to the sun really tired me out. It was unsafe to go running after that much sun: wouldn’t want to risk a heat-stroke, after-all!

Vegas!

Two weeks ago, I impulsively booked 4-day getaway to Vegas with DD: we’ll be flying towards trouble next week. I was pretty stoked until my bestie advised me (right as I was taking my first bite of deep-fried chocolate ice-cream!) that pool parties are the thing to do in Vegas.

summer readyI figured 2.5 weeks would be enough time to starve myself into sexy style but I underestimated the power of two Easters (Catholic Easter last week – celebrated with my godmama’s Italian family, and Orthodox Easter this week celebrated with my old man). Starvation didn’t happen, and I’m leaving in 5 days. Only one option remained:

BATHING SUIT SHOPPING.

I don’t consider myself a very big coward. But some things are really unpleasant. I find the idea of stripping down in front of a guy for the first time to be much less intimidating than going to a pool full of people and flaunting my jiggly bits, especially if that pool is in Vegas, chock-full of beautiful plastic people. Only marginally less traumatic is the activity of bathing suit shopping: once I am at the pool party, it’s too late to worry anyhow, especially after 1-2 drinks to dull the nerves. I think bathing suit stores should start serving hard alcohol: guaranteed increased sales, and terrible lapses in judgment.

The shopping saga

DD suggested that I get a one-piece, as the option of not attending a pool party due to bathing suit insecurities was clearly ineligible. This morning, therefore, I did some research and found several one-piece models that seemed affordable and sexy, and set off on my quest in an almost cheerful frame of mind, confident that it would only take me 2-3 tries before finding the perfect suit.

After 10 bathing suits, my confidence was wavering and I was late for boxing. Putting aside the unpleasant task, I went to get punched in the face for an hour – much less upsetting than bathing suit shopping.

After boxing, I felt strong and powerful, able to take on anything. I sallied forth to the first store on my list; moved briskly onto the second; grumpily onto the third; despairingly onto the forth. After trying on 50 bathing suits, I was ready to cancel the entire Vegas trip, and was convinced my body shape was horribly unique: all one pieces made me look frumpy, and most of them were too long for my torso while being simultaneously too tight around my average-sized bust.

I sought refuge in Indigo book store. 45 minutes later, I finally had my first purchase of the day: a book.

I considered abandoning my bathing suit quest, but didn’t want to repeat the same fail as I had last summer, when faced with a similar unpleasant obligation. Girding my loins, I decided to give it one last try. 30 bathing suits later, I purchased a bikini!

CONCLUSION: Vegas had better be amazing, to compensate for the mental trauma I went through today. Also? I’m really excited to read my new book.

I do so love being called a racist. Turns me on!

In case I haven’t made it clear that online dating is a hazardous activity, let me share with you an interaction from this morning:

IMG_0700

For those of you who do not speak French, here is a quick translation:
@9:10am: “Hello”
@9:15am: “Answer please, just chat, nothing more. I can be interesting, one never knows.”
@9:30am: “You don’t like talking to black people. I must be bothering you”

Apart from the obvious irony that I am prone to flirt/chat/date guys who are not white-Caucasians (as described here and here), something which I’ve decided to not share with the above Prince Charming, I am having trouble moving past this little incident.

This is why I hate online dating – it is an unwritten contract that by subscribing to these apps as a girl, I am agreeing to have all kinds of insults, ranging from rude sexual propositions to accusations of racism, thrown at me, JUST BECAUSE I WASN’T FLATTERED BY BEING ADDRESSED BY THESE GUYS.

I can’t even explain how mad this makes me.

#girlprivileges

Oh, the sacrifices for one’s artform

Context

Last month, I met an interesting boy. Interesting, because he seemed interested (#highstandards). Whilst making small-talk, I mentioned my blog; intrigued, he requested a link. I happily obliged. Chit chat chitatty chat, voilà, he asks for my number. I happily obliged and mentally high-fived myself.

The next day, I watched with satisfaction as my blog stats exploded. Clearly, he was reading my entire blog, twice.

I reconsidered that: he’d read my entire blog. Twice. Therefore, he had read about my dating disasters, including, but not limited to, my involuntary spin as the Other Woman and the ensuing baggage; my tendencies to overthink and argue; my smooth social skills. Dejected, I resigned myself to the inevitable: I’d never hear from him again.

To my surprise, he called the following evening. Called, not texted. Full points to him!

We had a nice chat, covered a variety of topics, including his impression of my blog. I viewed this as a sign from the Universe: I should not assume that any guy reading my blog would be scared away. Tentative plans were made to meet up for a coffee. I was most pleased.

Three weeks later, and I haven’t heard a peep from him. I can hear the Universe snickering at me.

Feedback

I mentioned this unfortunate turn of events to a few friends. While the opinions ranged from “no white guy will ever want to date you, now that you have advertised your penchant for chocolate; you’ve intimidated them all away” (really? really?! are white boys’ egos that fragile?) to “you’re so brave!!” (the kind of compliment that suspiciously sounds like an insult) to “if a guy can’t accept you for who you are, he isn’t worth your time” (thanks, Dr. Phil – loneliness always feels better when coated in self-righteousness), the consensus was that my blog would impact my dating life. In fact, there was a general surprise that I hadn’t foreseen this consequence of blogging, or as my father calls it, navel-gazing.

During this period of self-reflection, my friend Nene contemplated starting a blog of his own. I warned him of the potential negative side-effects of a blog on his love life. He considered this, but figured the impact would be minimal, as his own Twitter feed was already limiting the pool of lucky gals that could date him: “I can’t respect the opinion of someone who doesn’t like Seinfeld and the Wu-Tang Clan.” 95% of the female population, eliminated, by that simple tweet.

He thought over my blog content, and added his helpful bit to the general opinion: “You’re either going to end up with a black guy… or a guy who can’t read.”

Hmph.