Archive for April, 2009


master cleanse day iv: hanging in there

Day no. five, and I know where every last morsel of food is located in my apartment. There’s the miniature, blue-foil-wrapped chocolate egg left over from the Easter lying on the floor in my closet. There’s the bag of dried sugary cantaloupe slices I brought back from Palm Springs in the cupboard, along with dried cranberries and granola. There’s the chocolate bar I bought for the Twister, which she never ate, also sitting in the cupboard. (For those of you paying attention, the Twister has landed safely in Zurich.) There’s the bag of raisins in the fridge, also brought back from Palm Springs. Heck, even the cats’ 95% duck food is starting to look good.

Still, the end is in sight. Day 5 is hump day; after this, it’s just a matter of counting off the days ’til the end of this self-imposed sentence. I must be a glutton for punishment although, as I mentioned on Facebook, I’ve lost 80 pounds. (Not really, but that’s what I tell myself to keep going.)

What’s going to make it doubly hard tonight is that my cousin’s coming over for our weekly Movie Nite, which has been on hold for the last couple of weeks while I’ve been traveling. Traditionally, we order a large pizza with artichoke hearts or chicken and spinach or mushrooms and feta to go with the week’s flick, but tonight I’ll be swigging from my cup of cayenne-and-maple-syrup lemonade.

God. Could I go for a pizza right now.


Master cleanse, Day III: olfactory hallucinations

The talk of the people I was staying with out in California, the Master Cleanse is a 10-day torture in which you drink nothing but lemonade. Water, freshly squeezed lemon juice, a couple tablespoons of maple syrup and a dash of cayenne pepper, and voila—that’s your menu for the next week-and-a-half. For fun, you can also drink decaf herbal and/or laxative tea.

Day III is supposed to be the hardest, according to Charla, a veteran of this particular procedure. On Thursday, my last day in LA, she came out to lunch at the famous Nate & Al’s Deli, and just drank tea, which seemed particularly tortuous to me, to be in a place like that and denying yourself matzoh ball soup (a favourite since I was a kid) and a big fat corned-beef sandwich. I guess it was a form of food tourism, watching others eat, but I don’t see subjecting myself to watching others eat at fine restaurants over the next week.

Charla, a former Vancouverite now living L.A. with her husband Ed, is already pretty thin. So I don’t know what she’s trying to do—losing weight is probably the last things she needs to be doing, but then, what do I know? Women are funny about their bodies. I know why I’m doing it which is, yes, to lose some extra pounds brought on by too much Belgian beer and that one potato chip I had out in Palm Springs. Well, maybe two.

One thing I’ve noticed on my cleanse, is the smell of food. Maybe it was an olfactory hallucination, but I thought I smelled bacon when I was walking down the hall of my apartment building. Last night, I went to see a play that was, unfortunately, being put on in the back of a restaurant. To get to the theatre, I had to pass by diners consuming some awfully tasty smelling menu items. And then, one of the running themes of the play—it’s called Stop Kiss, and it’s set in New York—is food, since one of the protagonists, Callie (Missy Cross) knows all the good restaurants, and her friend Sara (Joey Bothwell) is new in town. Ouch!

One ironic thing about this whole cleanse is that, with the renos finally complete and the kitchen finally finished, my only “cooking” type activity is squeezing lemons, measuring out maple syrup and adding cayenne.

Fortunately I don’t have too much food around my condo unit to tempt me. This a.m. I found a chocolate bar I’d bought for the Twister, which she’d left. I bought some raisins in Palm Springs, and I have some dried cranberries and granola, but otherwise my figurative pantry isn’t overflowing with temptation. However, the Texas Twister, who is in Portland on her way to continental Europe to start her new job, did leave me with a parting gift:



Age is just a number

I know that 50 is supposed to be the new 30, but that doesn’t mean I want to start dating across the generation gap. Unfortunately, it seems that the majority of 50-something men I meet don’t think this way, and assume that it is me they should be trying to pick-up instead of women of their own age. Last weekend I was in a bar with a good friend, lets call her Angie, who is 53, and after she put a considerable amount of effort in to talking to a good looking guy a few years older than her he turned and asked for my phone number. She was pretty pissed off, especially when it kept happening. And I should state that my friend is a stunning looking woman who is in much better physical shape than I am!

This doesn’t just happen in real life, online I’d say that 90% of the man that contact me are at least as old as my dad. Some try to hide it, others make a joke out of it, but most don’t think its an issue. One guy lists his age as 48 but in the body of his profile admits he does this because he has such a young soul and simply cannot date women of his own age. Another told me that he was like cheese, and had gotten better with age. Oh please, give me a break! There are so many gorgeous, fantastic women out there who are past 40 and not getting a look-in because these silver foxes think they are too good for them in some way.

There are many reasons why I’m holding out for a man of my own age (32) or at least within ten-years of me, too many to list probably, but the major one is that I want more children. Unfortunately so do some of these men, and they see me as some kind of last chance saloon in which to donate their sperm. I know that May to December romances work for some people, but unless you are Sting, Perry Farrel or Pierce Brosnan there is no way you are getting my number.

* Feel like I should put a disclaimer here. I love Sting for his past achievements, not his recent ones. And if I were to make sweet love to him I would recall his body in the movie Dune or as ‘Aceface/ Bellboy’ in Quadrophenia and pretend not to know about all that awful Elizabethan revival lute crap he put out a few years back.


The Standard, downtown LA: life from the rooftop pool

While my esteemed colleague oohlola writes about the troubles and travails of dating on the East Coast, I’m on the West soaking up the sun (though today, in L.A., is overcast) and pondering life in the city of angels.

Not real life, mind you—not the hard-scrabble existence of the city’s millions of migrant workers, menial day-jobbers, and aspiring actors. But life from a fairly privileged perspective, here on the ninth floor of the Standard Hotel.

Painfully hip, the downtown L.A. Standard (there’s another on Sunset, and more throughout the world) has kind of minimalist decor with splashes of retro design, although I’m sure someone with a better eye than me for this stuff would disagree. The room—I’m bunking with a Master of the Universe, Vancouver division—features several small, cool touches, like a mini-bar stocked with items such as Crackerjack, Mr. Bubble and Tahitian beer, and some not-so-cool touches, like a sticker on the toilet paper roll of an International Symbol Person squatting and excreting. It’s almost as if the makers of American Pie were in here to do some touch-ups. Plus there are a couple of compilation CDs (for purchase, of course) of Standard-endorsed tracks (some interesting choices, including a bunch of stuff I’ve never heard of).

But the hotel’s main feature, at least for me, is the rooftop bar (the hotel is 12 stories). With groovy furniture, astro-turf, lounge chairs, and a pool, it’s a pretty sweet deal. I had a chance to catch some rays for a couple of hours yesterday afternoon: it was a very LA moment when about 20 people in work-clothes (long-sleeved shirts, pants) show up. Turns out they were location scouts.

Last night we hit the town, which consisted of high-proof bourbon at a dark little bar called Seven Grand (for its address, and probably the cost of its most expensive whiskey) and a meal at a place called Wok-ano. Not the best meal in the world, but I’m going to try making the asparagus and prawns in black bean sauce dish when I get home.

The previous night we’d spent at a townhouse in the neighbourhood of Los Feliz, but since the little caged birds belonging to the person in the other unit woke up my traveling companion, we headed for quieter climes. That didn’t stop me from waking up in the middle of the night last night though, with troubled thoughts of the future in mind, and a sour whiskey stomach.

Today, home.


Running in to Mr Superlover

The sun is shining in Halifax at last, people are out in their gardens and it seems that spring is actually here. So, I knew it was just a matter of time before I ran in to a mistake I made: the neighbor I was in lust with last summer, Nick. What we shared wasn’t even a fling, he was supposed to be a friend with benefits but the friendship never really happened and the benefits were of questionable quality.

Nick is beyond hot. Tall, muscular, smart and employed (doesn’t live with his mum either, bonus!), the first time I saw him up on scaffolding and bare-chested as he fixed up his house I swooned. He really is an absolutely beautiful specimen of mankind. We’d actually been fixed up by a mutual friend on Facebook when I first moved to Halifax last June, he’d pissed me off with some comment and I’d decided not to pursue him, but then I ran in to him two blocks away from my house, where he lived. Because he was so incredibly gorgeous, I invited him over for a beer.

We hooked up, it was nothing special but I put it down to the fact that it was our first time and thought it might get better. Nick came round and helped me fix some stuff in my house, he was a sweetheart, I looked after his dog one day and he asked if he could come round later. He did, we did, but the second time was pretty bad.  Then I had a date with the guy who called his mother a bitchwhore and I was feeling so crappy I invited Nick round to make it feel better. The hook-up was okay, still not that special but I felt a connection. (There I go again being a girl, of course I’d started to like him, especially compared to the rest of the losers I was meeting.) We got on really well and were talking about doing other stuff together, no way was there any relationship talk but I thought the friendship side was going to happen.

Then nothing. I’d run in to him outside his place, which I have to walk past to go ANYWHERE, including to take my kid to daycare, and we’d make small talk but I’d been given the brush off. I invited him over and felt like an idiot when he wasn’t interested. Then he contacted a friend on lavalife with some cheesy message about how big and strong he was and I wanted to gag. I got fed up of notices coming up on my Facebook feed from girls to him about how much they were looking forward to seeing him and so I unfriended him (not because I was jealous so much as I was starting to feel like the least liked member of his Facebook hareem). Nick loved himself, but had every right to I guess, he had so much going for him and obviously no problems attracting girls.

However, like I said, I have to walk past his house at least twice a day and I don’t want awkwardness so I asked for a ride to Home Depot one day (we are both renovating houses, one of the things we had in common) to clear the air and let him know we were cool. We went it was fine, but awkward. That was in September. I was genuinely sad that we couldn’t be friends. On Christmas Eve I emailed to say that I was hoping we could go for a beer sometime, he emailed back the next day to say sure, but he was in Mexico so he would call me when he got back. Of course he didn’t.

So, today as I dragged my daughter to the store in her wagon, wearing track pants and with no make-up on, there he was in his yard. I tried to walk by but he called me over and started making small-talk, I was polite but when he said he hadn’t seen me around I just had to leave. At least the first awkward encounter is over. And, I totally don’t find him as hot as my mind had built him up to be over the past five months. Maybe I’ll just have to cross the street before I get to his place from now on, and remember not to play so close to home next time.

Oh, and for light relief you might want to check out this video, cheesy but too true One of my girlfriends sent it to me because she thought it rang true of some of my experiences!


Paige and Rick’s Gallery opening

img_7904 INDIAN WELLS, CA—The other night, the Royale Gallery had its opening in Indian Wells. Indian Wells isn’t far from Palm Springs, traditionally an enclave for retired, white, gun-toting* Republicans**. Which raised the question: how much of a market is there in this retirement community for contemporary art? Read more at


On the online dating road to nowhere

Last week I took a chance and smiled at a cute guy on lavalife.  He smiled back, and we had a few emails back and forth that looked really promising. He gave me his MSN name and I gave him mine, then twenty minutes later we were chatting. It was cool. We talked about music, agreed on bands, emailed each other links to our favourite music videos and had a great chat for almost an hour. By the end of this typed conversation we were talking about chatting some more and going out to get poutine sometime. I signed off, because I could sense that the chat was winding down, but left it thinking that he was an interesting guy that I wanted to find out more about.

Two days later I log on to Messenger again and he’s there. I initiate a chat and its going okay but he is obviously distracted (when this happens paranoid old me always imagines that they guy must be chatting with ten women at once) and there are long pauses before he answers my questions. The quality of conversations dwindles until I realize that this person is rather dull and this is going nowhere. I wasted an hour of my life chatting with this sucker!

Anyways, that was that little blip of ‘almost was’ in this weeks exciting dating schedule. I nearly crossed paths with the 26 year old from last weekend. I went out for dinner with a couple of friends, they were taking me somewhere new and as we pulled in to the parking lot I saw my weekend snogging partner in the window of the restaurant (he had told me he managed one, but I’d forgotten until that moment where it was). I just could not bear the thought of having to pretend I’d been busy or whatever other bullshit excuse I’d have to come up with so I stayed in the car and made my friends get us take-out. Besides, I had my toddler with me and she was coming down from the most epic melt-down of her life so far, so I was not in the mood for any further spending of emotion.

On a more positive note, I may have to go to NY for business, so emailed the Brooklyn Boy Toy to see if I could crash at his place. He said yes, but I already think I may be making a mistake by continuing this dalliance. We have had two flings, where he has flown out to be with me and we’ve had a wonderful time but then total weirdness afterward where I end up getting my feelings hurt. I need to think it over, work out if I really am over him enough to just spend two hot days in NYC then fly home and forget him again. He’s pretty damn gorgeous, so as long I can stop myself from falling too hard when I’m in his company , I would like to go to there again. There being the inside of his pants, where believe me, there is quite a party! But, I am a girl and making that disconnect from sex and love is tricky, especially as the boy pretty much told me he loved me once. But love became lust, the distance between us too far and it fizzled away.Maybe I should go, take a chance, at least have some of the fun I’m missing here in Halifax.

April 2009

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