That was not a good date Was he nice? Yes Was he talkative? Yes Did he offer to pay and refuse me helping to pay? Yes HOWEVER Did we have chemistry? No… Did I find him attractive? No… Do I want to see him again? No… I’m sure people will judge me for this and say, ‘you can’t have everything, he was a gentleman and nice to you but not good enough you’ll never be happy etc etc’. Let me say this; Just because a guy pays for you (which he doesn’t have to) and is pleasant to talk to and nice, does not mean you are entitled to see them again yes, he was a nice person, yes, i’d see him again on a friendly basis But I am not going to subject myself to dating someone and messing them around when I know full well I didn’t find them sexually attractive or feel as though we had any sparks or chemistry Life is too short to be unhappy for the sake of others - Becky
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:
Laugh it off. Maybe use proper Improv skills by “yes, and…” -ing him. “Yah, and keep your eyes open for my new show Whoreders!”
Get super defensive.
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.”
Something weird happened. I got asked out- in real life. A dude walked up to me (well, he was serving me, so it was sort of his job) and asked for my number. I was so thrown off. No swiping right or left, no texting to give me time to think of something witty to write back… It was just me, sitting, looking at my friend Amanda with total confusion.
“Uhhhhhh, what?”
But since I’m like Carla from The Chew, a big believer in the “Power of Yes,” I said,
“Sure. Why not?”
Cuz why not? This guy is cute, Australian, and works in the service industry, so he’s probably a power drinker. Plus, I haven’t got laid in forever. I need to start checking out some options.
I don’t know how I got a dude I barely know to take me to the CNE (The EX- whatever you like to call it.) That’s a pretty lengthy first date, but I figure if he thinks I suck, or I think he sucks, at least we have all the carnies to keep us entertained. As it turns out, we’re neighbours, so we meet on the corner by my house to start off the date. (Neighbours- even more booty call potential. Woot Woot!)
We decide to stop at Paupers on the way to the Bathurst Streetcar. As we walk up the three staircases to the rooftop patio, he pokes his finger into my right butt cheek. It’s a little early for touching my bum, but he’s Australian- they’re fast movers. Maybe they want to get the most out of their visas. The accent works as a chick magnet. Not on ME, of course. I need to be impressed by what you say, not how it sounds. (Just kidding. I lost my virginity to an accent. They facking work, eh?)
The bar is rammed, and I can tell the bartender is in the weeds. We sit at a bar. He orders a Creemore. I order a cider. My date pipes up at my drink choice.
“Cider makes your vagina stink.”
Wow. This just in, folks. Cider makes your bing bang smell? And while I can’t trust that this man is the king of facts, nothing’s gonna resonate in my brain more EVERY TIME I order a cider, than what this man just said. And I really like cider in the summer. I wonder if you can cut the stinkiness in half by ordering a Black Velvet?
“You know what- I’ll have a Creemore instead.”
Alright. He wins this round. Maybe later I can convince him cotton candy makes your ding dong shrink.
My date quickly proves he is not shy, nor hiding anything.
“I’ve slept with 50 girls in the last year.”
Wow. And didn’t blog about it? What a waste…
“I’ve slept with 200 since I’ve been in Canada.”
Holy FACK! It’s just an accent. How is this guy scoring with so many chicks? And do I really want to be #201? Do I dare ask how many chicks he’s been with in total? Yikes. I know numbers shouldn’t matter if you really like someone, but I just got tested for everything under the sun. I have my test results posted on my fridge like a perfect report card. Are there extra-strength condoms, for a dude like this?
He burps. I don’t react. Can I? I’m a burper too. Not that I’m ready to bust out mine yet. We’re still on the first drink. His burps are more that low tone, bubbly, Grandpa kind. Mine are more like an Opera singer, coming straight from the diaphragm. Still, I feel like this burp (and the others he will continuously do all day) is the universe’s way of showing me what I look like… Yikes. Sorry, y'all.
We head over to the streetcar. As we head down Bathurst, on our baller transportation, he hollers at people on the street. Dear lord. We’re the ones on the TTC. I wouldn’t get too cocky…
At the gate to enter the EX, he by passes the ticket sales.
“Dude, we have to get a ticket first.”
“No, follow me.“
He pulls me over to the entrance, where he tries to convince the employee that we’re part of some VIP function inside. Right, cuz VIP’s are taking day trips to ride the Zipper. I stand there, embarrassed, and give the employee an apologetic look. When we get denied the free entrance he was hoping for, we walk over to the booth and buy tickets. We then enter the fairgrounds, with our heads lowered in shame. (Well, mine at least.)
We hit the food building first. Time to eat like a carny. My fave. In the building he starts walking up to random people, trying to steal food right off their plates. Some people think he’s charming, and allow him. Others are disgusted, and bark at him,
“EXCUSE ME!”
This is getting embarrassing. And on top of his fry stealing, he also motioned for a guy to throw his football at him. When the guy finally decides to throw it, my date ducks, to purposely miss catching it, landing the football dangerously close to a woman holding her baby. My jaw drops in shock. What a facking idiot! This was the point of the date where I ran to the bathroom and tweeted,
“Can I go back to Tinder now?”
My date can sense my irritation. Finally.
“I’m annoying you, aren’t I?”
“Umm… this is your date too. You get to act however you like…”
God damnit! Why do I have to be so nice all the time!? Why can’t I just lose my shit and say,
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” *
Oh ya… cuz I’m a total weeny…
“I just thought because you’re a comedian, you’d like that I was being funny.”
Oh for facks sake. First of all, this is NOT funny to me. I didn’t expect my date to turn into an impromptu episode of Punk’d… And just because I’m a comedian doesn’t mean I want to turn every moment of my life into a joke.
“Umm… I am a comedian, but I’m not one of those comedians who’s “on” all the time. Sometimes, I’m just a normal chick… trying to enjoy a normal date…”
Now it’s awkward. I haven’t laughed at any of his “material.” He’s now well aware he’s bombing.
When we finish eating, we head out into the rows of carny games. He stops me at the basketball game, advertising, “ONE IN WINS.” He gives the carny five bucks.
“You have three shots. If you miss all three, you have to kiss me.”
FACK! This might be romantic, straight out of a Kate Hudson movie, and possibly even charming if I wasn’t so turned off at this point. But I agree to the bet, because I feel like a mom who’s just cursed at her kid. Now I feel bad, and want to be nice again. And I gotta say, I really focused on making those shots. Like NBA playoff game free throws. Even my date could tell.
“Wow. You really don’t want this kiss, do you?”
Haha! Well, he finally made me laugh. But you know how these carny games are rigged so you lose. Every shot bounced off the rim. I was soooooo close, despite how gimped I probably look in this picture. (Can somebody give me tips on my form?)
Alas, I lose. Facking carny games. He kisses me, with some real effort to impress. He’s trying to be passionate, which is not easy when you’re surrounded by whiffle balls and plastic ducks. The kiss actually makes me feel like I’M out of practice. I don’t think I’m opening my mouth enough for him… But then I think about how much cider I’ve drank this week, aaaaaaand… the moments done. Over. I’m out. I just can’t.
It’s interesting. Most dates I walk into thinking,
I’m NOT going to sleep with him!
I’m NOT going to sleep with him!
I’m NOT going to sleep with him!
This date was the opposite. I’m kind of horny, haven’t got laid since August 2nd, (now you know what I did on my blogging hiatus) and could really use some action. But not this action. Not #201. That’s the tricky part about being a girl. It’s so easy to get sex, but it’s so hard to get the sex you want…
Part of me thinks he was just trying TOO hard to make me laugh, because I’m comedian. Another part of me fears that’s really how he acts all the time…
I would have added him on Facebook, but like most players, he’s not on Facebook. They don’t like being tracked, eh?
So here I am again…
Using my fingers for things other than rings,
(Maybe that will work after all…)
Walkinsauce
*Notice I used the real F word there. Not FACK! That’s me getting ballsy, yo.
P.S. This picture is better, but only cuz I cropped my ass out.
Holy fack! I’m blogging again! This is so nerve racking. I feel like this is season two, and the pressure is on. Maybe this season won’t be as powerful as the first. A lot of you wrote to me saying, “Go for 100 Tinder dates!” I could have. I haven’t deleted Tinder or anything. But I need to expand my horizons. You can date anywhere you go in life, through all sorts of outlets. You could go up to a hot guy in Wal-Mart and offer to buy him a can of tuna. (If you can find a hot guy in Wal-Mart.) The sky’s the limit. Of course, my whole point of My Week on Tinder was to prove how fun being single is. And I don’t know if I proved it to you, but I definitely proved it to myself. I’ve never had so much fun in my life.
Oh, I facking LOVE everybody who told me to keep writing. It’s why I’m here right now. As we know, I’m a tragically lazy person. Blogging is the only thing I committed to last year. I know I need to keep writing, no matter how strong my fear of public grammar errors is. So I thought about what I wanted to make my next blog. My first choice was to stop showering and shaving and start a modern day cavewoman’s blog. But that seemed a little too close to my real life, so I didn’t see the niche. I thought about trying a dating blog based on Christian Mingle, but I just discovered 3:16 is not Pi. (Pi is actually 3.14159265359- the exact number I say when people ask me how many people I’ve slept with.)
But then I thought of an idea I had months ago, when I had interest from a producer who wanted to develop my blog into a reality show. He asked me what I wanted to call my show. I thought about it, and the title that best represents my life, is “Resisting Marriage.” I was swiftly shot down.
“You can’t use the word “marriage” in the title. Young people won’t watch it.”
Hmmmmm… I said “resisting marriage.” I didn’t say “FACK yeah Marriage rules!” The word “resist” was in my title. Heaven forbid we send a message to young people to NOT rush into marriage. That it’s okay to be unmarried at 30. Let’s keep letting them believe they should be married by 25! Beat the rush! Do it at 23! Be the first! Right out of high school! You’re the winner! (And divorced by my age.) I see marriage like sky diving. If I do it, I’m only doing it once. (And it may kill me.) It’s a social convention that was invented when people only lived to be 27. Now that we’re all gonna (hopefully) live to 100, don’t you think we should take our time with this? Maybe wait a while? Make sure we’re done sowing our wild oats? Find someone who just gets that you’ll never fill the Brita? And more importantly, be okay if we find him a little later in life? I’m in my 30’s, and I’m just startingto get really good at being single. I want to ride this out for a while. I get it. Marriage is a tradition. But the only tradition I’m still truly behind is retirement.
Oh, this is where I cover my ass and say, “Oh, but I do know super perfect couples, still in love! It can happen!” That’s true too. Everybody’s different. But on the wake of a Beyonce/Jay-Z break-up, we also have to realize break-ups can happen to anybody… My friend Kathleen McGee has a hilarious joke about married people. Or maybe the joke is about blowjobs. Let’s just print it and see:
“I always hear married women complain about giving blowjobs… I actually like giving blow jobs. Tell you what… I’ll blow your husband, you go to Costco. Everybody’s happy.”
(-@Kathleen_McGee on Twitter)
No matter what your reaction to this joke is, I watched it KILL in Vancouver last week. When the crowd laughed as hard as they did, I knew there was a real truth to this. Yikes. I don’t think I’m ready to replace my sex life with twelve boxes of Q-Tips. I’m actually hoping for more .5’s in this blog. I’m getting closer to my sexual peak, and I only like using vibrators on the outside, if you get my drift. (I save the inside for boys.)
So, this is my new blog. Resisting Marriage. I’m gonna live my single life, date, pursue my dreams, and pray for no typos. I have a weird theory that the reason I don’t desire the whole wedding day thing, is because I’m a stand up comic. I already get enough time in the spotlight. I don’t need that one “big day” where all my friends watch me walk down the aisle in a big white dress. Plus weddings take a LOT of organization AND money. Two things I don’t have. Personally, I think I can skip that whole industry. (Some people argue that I won’t organize it- my maid of honour will. Making my BEST FRIEND do all that work does NOT make me feel better. I’d actually feel guilty. Plus, I don’t even like cake.)
I trust you know I’m organically happy sleeping alone every night. I almost cherish it. (I’ve slept with a lot of people who snore.) We’ll see what happens. I had no idea what I was doing when I started my last blog, and I have no idea what I’m doing now… That’s the fun thing about a blog. Nobody telling you what to say, or what to do. This is really me. Even if I’m a total facking idiot.
But here’s where I remind you of what an idealist I am…
I honestly believe that if we grow up a little slower, “put a ring on it” a little later, we can abolish cheating. Everybody hates cheaters. Nobody means to cheat. But it’s happening- and to good people. You hear it all the time:
“Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.”
How about this:
Let’schangethe game.
Let’s say you can’t buy Boardwalk until after you’ve been around the board at least a dozen times. Let’s allow people to land on our property a bunch of times, before we build hotels, and take all their money. (Is this analogy even close to making sense?) The game is long. No point in peaking too early. (I don’t think I’ve ever figured out how to end a game of Monopoly.)
So welcome to my new blog. Where I will (hopefully) prove to you a marriage free life can be fun. I want to be a landing pad for the newly single. (Which I think I already am.) Breakups are disturbing. Being single is awesome. You just have to remember to breathe through the transition…
Remember to love life, as much as you love a significant other.
(Or, I end up hopelessly in love and married a year from now, and we all look back on this blog and laugh at me.)
Keep Calm, and – Wait, that’s facking done. How do I sign off with this blog?
