#christinawalkinshaw

I was 17 the first time I ever went to a bar. (Don’t tell my parents.) It was the nightclub across the street from my part-time job at McDonalds, called Cheers. It was nothing like the T.V. show, unless you wanted to call all those male strippers they had on ladies night, “Woody’s.” All the cool swing managers would go there after work, and as a team player, I was eager to join them.* My fake I.D. was not actually fake, it just wasn’t me. It was another blonde co-worker who smiled SO hard in her picture, you could barely see her eyes. (I can pull off that look, obvi.) Plus, she was a Gemini, which I feel like I can pass for.

That first step into the bar, pass the bouncer is a very exciting moment in your life. I wish I had a picture, but it’s not exactly the kind of night your parents stop you at the front door to take pictures for the family album. The bar is empty, because you have no idea that it’s not cool to get there at 8:30. It smells of booze and that weird smoky stuff they blow onto the dance floor. (Probably to cover up the smell of farts.) As terrifying as it might seem for you to imagine your teenaged daughter at “da club,” you’d be shocked at how responsible we can be. I barely drank any alcohol. Not because it was illegal for me to do so, but because:

1. I had no idea what to order. Thus far, my only experience with drinking was a four pack of BC Growers Peach Coolers. I didn’t think that was the kind of order that says, “I’m legal,” so I just refrained. (Back then I didn’t even like beer. Can you BELIEVE there was such a time?)
2. My McDonalds paycheck would not last long in a drinkers world. I had other expenses, like ESPRIT shirts, and my own phone line in my room I had to pay for.
3. The bartender’s boobs were at least 8 times bigger than mine, and I would undoubtedly stare at them WAY too long anytime I got near the bar.

My only intention going to bars so young was to dance. I may not have been good at it, but I loved it. There was only one thing that scared the shit out of me back then. Other women. They were intimidating. They glared. They danced better than me, and if at any moment I accidentally invaded their dancing space, they would not hesitate in a bump from behind that cried, “Get the fuck out of my way.”

I went to a bar for the first time in forever on Saturday night. My Saturday nights are usually reserved for doing shows, but this week I ditched it to see what’s up in the normal Saturday night world. Oh, and when I say “bar” I mean “place where you dance.” I obviously go to pubs regularly. That’s more my speed. Nobody dances at my local, unless maybe you win a round of Golden Tee, and decide to do a swift victory dance. I guess I could use the word “club,” but that makes it sound like I’m on the corner of Peter and Richmond St. (I can’t.)

When I step into a crowded bar, all these memories of mean girls flood back into my brain. Even the time a girl threw a drink on my back. I was too scared to stop and confront her, so I just kept on walking. I pretended I didn’t feel it. (Even though I was wearing a halter-top, so obviously I felt it.) I was so embarrassed, I didn’t even tell my friends it happened until I was much drunker. The fear of the Queen Bee’s sting always lurked in my twenties. But tonight, something much different is in the air. These strange women who I don’t know, are nice.

As we step into The Ossington (don’t wanna brag, but I still get ID’d,) we pay our very reasonable cover of $5. Instead of getting one of those stamps on your hands that I often don’t wash off for a good 24 hours, the girl draws a little smiley face on my wrist. We make our way over to grab a drink. The bartender looks more like somebody I would be friends with, than a porn star. (So no, I did not stare at her boobs all night.)

We hit the dance floor. It still scares me going out there. My friend Ronit is a great dancer, so luckily she steals focus my “squats to the beat” moves. I notice so many differences from my years at Cheers. First of all, it is way easier to dance to “Bombs Over Baghdad” in Chuck Taylor’s. I don’t know what I was doing in heels all those years. The guy wearing a shirt with the Loblaws logo on it, is obviously ordering a round of Bud Lights. The floor is still sticky as fack. I keep stepping on fallen garnishes. I fear more vodka is landing on my shoes than my mouth. I notice guys love flirting with girls in hats. Trust me on this. Eventually they will take it off your head and put it on their own. Even if it’s pink. (John Corbett once stole my pink Clipper hat and tried to wear it all night. I had to fight him to get it back.)

But here’s the cool observation that I really want to get at. The chicks on the dance floor were cool. Friendly. Warm. One girl even tried to hug us when we hit the dance floor. (K, she might have been high, but I appreciate the warm greeting.) In the bathroom, we all talk to each other as if we know each other for five minutes of our lives. We joke about where we’re going to wipe our wet hands once they run out of paper towels. It’s also notable that this is my first time hanging out with Ronit, my new friend from at adult camp. It’s nice to hang with new cool chicks, especially since I have a way of telling my regular besties the same story 80 times.

I feel like women are really coming together. It’s nice to see this evolution, where women have gone from being catty and hostile to each other, to friendly and kind. Nobody threw a drink on my back. (Maybe a few accidental splashes, but they came with a “Oh I’m SO sorry!! Did I get you?”) I love the rise of feminism, of us all being equals with men, but I’m also enlightened by this notion that we’re all equals with each other. We are not, in fact, in competition. We are teammates. We are sisters. We are- FACK! I’m getting cheesy. I’ll stop. In short I’ll just say, I’m always trying to figure out what’s going on in the world around me. Tonight, I liked what I saw.

At the end of night, Ronit yells out of the cab to a girl we were just talking to.

“You’re beautiful!!!!”

That’s the kind of heckling I want to see more of.

Using my fingers for things other than rings,

Walkinsauce

*Is working at McDonalds as a teenager still cool? Cuz I SWEAR it was cool when I was young. I felt bad for my two friends who couldn’t get hired and had to settle for jobs at A&W.

P.S. Oh and one more observation from my night in “da club.” You’d be surprised how many people still really like Ja Rule.

P.P.S. That dude who photo bombed came up to me afterward and said, “Do you have a blog?" 

(I tried to put the word “politely” in italics but it wouldn’t let me. Damn title games here on Tumblr I guess.)

(Also, I should probably never start a blog with brackets, eh?)

I’m a real weirdo, you know that right? All this dating, and I’m actually happier on my own. It’s hard to explain that to someone. Imagine being the girl who gets up after sex and leaves. (Not that I’ve had sex lately. I have a powerful ingrown hair right now that’s taken over my underwear region. I’ve named him “Kuato.”) Anyways, what happens when people learn all about your grossness, and still want to be with you? And then you need to drop the biggest bomb of all.

I don’t want a relationship.

It’s easy to assume that every woman is in search of “the one.” I am a new form of weirdo who enjoys my life alone. I’m in the comfort zone with myself. I am not in search of my soulmate. But I am in search of the perfect baked wing. (I need to cut back on my deep fried foods.)

I live by myself, and I facking love it. If you’ve never lived alone, you gotta try it. I’m allowed to live however I want. It’s amazing. I recently pushed all my couches back against my walls and permanently have my yoga mat in front of my TV so I can meditate to Rogers Galaxy Radio. (The adult pop channel, obvi.) I keep garbage in the fridge so it doesn’t stink up my apartment prior to garbage day. I have framed posters of both Kesha and Taylor Swift on my walls. I think I’m up to 67 Eco-bags, all of which are randomly hanging on every doorknob in my apartment. My vacuum is barely bigger than my vibrator. I flush my toilet once every three times I use it. Who wants me now?

I’ve had a few very special, awesome relationships in my life. How those guys ever put up with me is a wonder. (I do keep a good supply of beer in the fridge.) But at this point in my life, where my #1 goal is working on my career in comedy and writing, I can’t rock the boat with the distraction of love. It’s why I chose Tinder over EHarmony.

I remember seeing India Arie in concert Riverside, California in 2006. In between Heart of the MatterandWings of Forgiveness, she said, “Love is the blessing. But relationships are the work.” (And then tears were shed by me and hundreds of black women.) I tend to agree with India. Even when I’m in a super healthy relationship, I always worry about things that I shouldn’t. I can’t help it. With infidelity all around you, it’s mystical sometimes to believe that you’ve somehow dodged it. Being single, I’m totally carefree. It’s liberating. So when I enter into a relationship, I have to like that person more than I like being single. Which is a LOT. Plain and simple. If I see any signs of needy behaviour from someone, I run faster than any trainer could ever encourage. If I make out with you, instead of texting me and immediately wanting to know,

“Where this is going?”

I would rather a text like,

“Hey, just passed a guy with a solid jew fro and it reminded me of your bing bang.”

K, I’m obviously not speaking for all women here, but that’s what I would rather.

And just because we’re “single” doesn’t mean we’re “alone.” Far from it. These days, it’s almost impossible to feel alone. Even if you’re at home by yourself, is it possible to actually feel “lonely?” You got Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tinder, Snapchat, Netflix… wow. There’s a lot to do when you’re “alone.” If you’re like me, you’ll “take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while.”* If I have a moment where I truly feel alone, I love it. I do meditate for real. You probably don’t expect that from a girl who drinks four days a week. (K, sometimes five.) But I need it. It’s so peaceful. (Until somebody blares the car horn out your window. Also, it’s a good reminder I need to clean underneath my couches more often.)

So this is the creepy little life I’ve made for myself. Though it’s far from perfect, I love it. I have a shitload of great friends who never make me “alone.” And yes, I may go out with you, bond about life, kiss you… but at the end of the day… I gotta be on my own. It’s a dorky term, and I would like to come up with a new one, but I guess I really am a “free spirit.”

Clooney’s out. I’m still in.

xoxo, (but NO commitment please)

walkinsauce 

*That’s a line from my favourite Billy Joel song, Vienna! Hence why the phone reference is a little dated. As an update, I recommend just putting your phone on airplane mode. That way you can still listen to your Billy Joel collection.

I had three chances to get laid last week, and I’ll be honest- I really wanted to. I can tell, because I have three types of shower gel in my shower. One that smells like a Laura Ashley dress converted to an aroma, (good to use before a trip to Grandma’s house,) one that I only use because I got it for free, so there’s no sense in buying more soap until it’s gone, and one that smells like Raspberry AND Vanilla combined! It’s so delish. I know I want to get laid when I hop in to the shower and use that one. (Or if I hop in the shower at all.)

Obviously last week was a super bust. I think my bing bang started to build a fence around itself after that date. And I did meet up with an ex-Tinder a few days ago- I won’t tell you which one, but I can confirm he still looks like Steve Burton from General Hospital. But we’re definitely just buddies. It’s not kinky. However, I also had a date with an old friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in ages. I’m not really sure if it was technically a date, but we definitely locked down plans to grab drinks together. I was really looking forward to it. We actually slept together a long time ago, so in the back of my mind I thought, “well… we’re both currently single… so it could happen again…” Plus, the bonus of sleeping with someone you’ve already slept with is that your numbers don’t go up. It’s a repeat offense. Deluxe. 

The “date” occurred as most Toronto “dates” do. Two people walking through the city, one pushing his/her bike, while the other person reminisces about the bike they recently had stolen. We stop at a few Bloordale bars. (Bloordale- The new Queen West.) The catch up session is going good. We discuss being single, give each other advice on what would improve our “singlehood,” all the while dropping signals that we don’t mean with each other, obvi.

We take a seat at Northwood, one of my favourite spots in the hood. Sometimes I even write there, cuz the table in the back left corner has an outlet under it. The beers are good and hoppy. My favourite kind. My “date” is flirting with the bartender, which is fine, cuz technically, this is not a date. She drops the “B” bomb, subtly bringing up the fact that she is happily taken. He still gives her his card.

Now that I am for sure friend-zoned, I’m happy to get on with normal, platonic friend bonding stuff. I begin to babble, about my horny, yet epic fail of a week. 

“I’m telling you, there’s a certain time of the month that women are horny. We can’t control it. It’s not the time of the month we’re best known for, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same time of the month chicks trying to get pregnant are really givin ‘er, ya know? It’s those middle days, right in the middle of your cycle. One week you’re fine, going to bed with Netflix as usual, the next, you wonder if it’s possible to sit on a doorknob. It’s so weird.”

And that’s when he said that one sentence that no girl wants to hear…

“That’s cuz you’re a whore.”

It hits me like a stun gun. The word paralyzes me… I guess I get it… I get why you might call me that. I don’t always make perfect choices in my personal life. I’ve been on over 50 Tinder dates in the last year and I obviously didn’t shy away from telling everyone. And I know I have a perverted sense of humour, that maybe invites people to think I can handle being called this word, but I can’t…

I have no idea how to respond to this statement… (Accusation?) I figure I have three options:

1. Laugh it off. Maybe use proper Improv skills by “yes, and…” -ing him. “Yah, and keep your eyes open for my new show Whoreders!”
2. Get super defensive.
3. Never hang out with someone who calls me this again.

But if you’ve ever seen me do improv, you know I can actually stutter in the moment. I’m not always sure I’m saying the right thing. So in my most earnest Elle Woods voice, I respond with,

“Umm… I don’t really think I am. I know I went out with a billion guys last year, but I barely slept with any of them, and the dudes I slept with are actually awesome. I’m quite proud of them… And just because I talk about sex openly, possibly all the time, possibly too much, doesn’t make me a whore… at least I think…”

“I was just kidding!”

Oh… that was just a joke… of course. I’m just a comedian, who’s used to being surrounded by people who write such brilliant stuff, I’m hysterically laughing. Now you come along, impairing me with this vision that people see me as a disposable vessel for a man’s penis. But to you, that’s a joke…

I don’t really know why the word Whore hurts so much, but it just does. Theres other words like it, but they don’t bother me. My friends and I growing up used to call each other sluts all the time. We were all hard-core virgins at the time, so it didn’t really make any sense. Just the thought of sex made us giggle to death. My friend Tania even remodeled a Barbie and named her “Slut It Up” Barbie. Then she gave it to my cousin for Christmas. We laughed our asses off, plus we finally found a good reason to tease Barbie’s hair. Then you got skank, hussy, ho, cum guzzler…  I hate to say it, but I can handle those ones. If I had my choice of sexually active female catcalls, I’d personally go with “Floozy.” I like that one. Kind of sounds cute, like I didn’t mean to do it. Even “Hoochy Mama” has its catchiness. (Thank you, Seinfeld.)

ButWhore? I can’t… Sorry. That’s just me.

I googled “Whore,” just to be sure “Woman who loves Taylor Swift, fancy cheese, and only makes minimum payments on credit card bills, who would ideally like to have sex at least once a month” didn’t pop up. (Cuz then I’d be in trouble.) But this is what popped up:

Whore

/ho^r/     

(K, that little accent circonflexe thingy is supposed to go on top of  the “o”                     but I can’t figure out how to get it there with my keyboard.)

nounderogatory

1. a prostitute.                                  

synonyms: work as a prostitute, sell one’s body, sell oneself, on the streets

I don’t wanna burst his bubble, but I’ve never even sold jewelry on the streets. Great. Now we have women who don’t know the definition of “feminist,” we have men who don’t know the definition of “whore.” How are we ever going to perfect our compliments/insults if we can’t grasp simple English? No wonder everybody at work looks confused when I call them, “Dildos.” (I’m calling you PLEASURE PIECES, MY LOVES!)

Don’t worry. I didn’t start crying and run out of the bar. (I had a full beer.) We continued onwards with the night, but when we ran into my date’s friends, I decide to make my exit. I make an excuse that I can’t drink more because I have to bike home. (A bike can be your best wingman. Plus he’s super fun to ride at the end of the night.)

When I arrive home, he texts me his address. He wants me to come over for “fun times.”

I politely decline.

Because I’d hate for someone to call me a whore.