According to Ari Gold

I think it's safe to say I have unrealistic expectations about what I want in a man.

After having a dream the other night in which I was Ari Gold's new protegee on Entourage (it was the sexiest non-sex dream I've EVER had), I helped him determine Chris Klein was too wooden to act in a new book adaptation, and Ari made me an iTunes playlist of love songs to thank me. . . yea, I'm not sure about the deeper meaning either. . . well, I realized I have very strange standards.

I think real life Jermey Piven is kinda greasy and sleazy. But I can tell you with 100% certainty that if he was wearing a suit, carrying a Blackberry and was yelling at me? I'd totally hit that.



Is that weird? And what does that say about me?

According to "Spoke too Soon"

So, today I managed to firmly stick my foot in my mouth yet again.

I have this massive crush on my Purolator delivery man, whose name I genuinely don't know. Today he came to pick up a package and I attempted to find out if he was attached by asking if he has any plans for Thanksgiving. He provided no really helpful tidbits, saying he was going to his sister's.

He left and as he was out the door I said to my coworker "I love him."

That, of course was the exact moment he chose to walk back in the door.

According to MY Dumb Luck

As a follow up to last weekend's post about meeting a boy. . .

Boys suck.

He spent the whole weekend flirting with me, saying things like "I'm not having as much fun tonight" and then agreeing when I suggested it was because I wasn't with him. Giving me all sorts of signals in person. And then today I send him a text and say "so, a few weeks ago I met this cute guy, and I'm thinking about asking him to do something. Thoughts?"

His thoughts?

"I started seeing someone."

According to My Birthday Gift

This year, for my birthday, my mother got me the following:

According to Nudity Proactivity

The other day, I established the concept of being "nudity proactive."

Basically, this is something that comes over me whenever I like a guy and deem that it is not entirely platonic or one sided. (Granted, normally even when I've decided this, it turns out later that it was, indeed, one-sided after all). The philosophy of nudity proactivity is this:

Try to look as good as possible naked BEFORE anyone actually has to see you naked.

There is a logic to this more than just general vanity. You see, when someone has been single as long as I have (I've made the numbers public in the past, no need to post them again), it becomes common to sort of. . . get lazy about things. There's a weird myth that girls in relationships let themselves go. I never found that. I always found I made much more of an effort to look good or stay fit when someone was going to be touching me constantly or appraising me without clothing on (did I just make myself sound like chattel? hmmm.) But whenever I'm single and without any real prospects, I sort of stop trying on the small stuff.

For a good example, my regular waxer, the lovely Khia, recently asked my best friend if I was okay, because it had been so long since I'd been in. You know things have gone to pasture when the girl who. . . erm. . . landscapes your garden?. . . in the Brazillian tradition?. . . NOTICES you've been absent.

Moreover, my exercise routines go by the wayside. And often, I'll go a few days without shaving my legs. Perhaps I won't brush my teeth on a Sunday if I'm not working. In other words, I'm sort of like a guy, haha.

Then, all of a sudden, someone will show up and I'll think "damn. . . I wouldn't kick him out of my bed for eating crackers." And then it dawns on you, that if he were to actually end up IN my bed, he'd probably realize that I'd actually been eating crackers there. And chips. And like. . . soup and stuff. I like to eat in my bed, what can I say?

And then it dawns on you further that: I haven't bought new underwear in easily 3 months. I haven't visited the aforementioned Khia in almost 7 months. (there WAS an unfortunate experiment with some Nair. . . and, well. . . never again.) I realize I haven't done a sit-up in like, 6 months, or used my elliptical in about 2. And it's because, to be honest, the actual prospect of having sex hasn't existed for probably 12 months. You let things slide.

So suddenly you meet this guy, and you're like "heck yes, hormone overload and bad decision making: here I come!" And then realize: "Cripes. . . would I actually WANT someone to see me naked right now?"

And with that in mind, nudity proactivity comes into play.

And because of the previous post. . . I'm going to go do some crunches.

According to Dumb Luck

Went out this weekend, and the impossible happened.

I met a guy. A potentially actually decent, honestly adorable, guy.

Go figure.

According to My Brother

"You just haven't met any guys who are good enough for you yet."

According to 91km

I forewarned everyone that occasionally a "serious" entry would poke itself in here, and I believe this may be an example of one of those.

I sort of brushed on a concept herein while introducing my Cosmo entry, and that is the idea that women seem to feel the need to create a version of themselves that caters to the wishes and desires of their "ideal" man. Which of course is complete horseshit. Whichever man/woman/individual is the right person for you to be with, that person will love you (in the immortal words of Mark Darcy): "just as you are."

I firmly believe that the only things you really need to change when you finally meet "the one" are that suddenly you will have to share your bed ALL THE TIME, and that perhaps you will have to sit around watching UFC from time to time because he or she puts up with your fanatical need to watch True Blood.

Any other changes cannot possibly be for the better. You should never have to pretend you like hockey if you don't (I happen to love hockey, but sports like professional soccer, wrestling, televised golf, etc are totally beyond me); you should be able to eat what you want in front of someone; wear the clothes you like; admit that you think Kate Hudson isn't really all that great an actress, but you totally saw How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days in the theatre. Being who you are is a good thing. You should only ever change something because it's a change you want for yourself.

In the same breath, you should NEVER insist your partner change something about their personality because it bothers you. Your boyfriend likes mushroom pizza? Don't try to make him love your pineapple/feta. Order two pizzas. Your boyfriend absolutely loves his grubby high school football shirt? Don't throw it out because it's disgusting. Accept it, and he will accept that you own 10 pairs of flats but only ever wear one.

It is with this in mind, I come to my point. Last weekend I completed, over 2 days, a 91km bike ride. That is both an intense and epic number to wrap my head around. I sadly, did not complete the full return trip, but nevertheless, the experience of getting as far as I did was, not to sound cheesy, profound. I mentioned to my friend Kristen as we were arriving to check in that I have a mental list of things I want to accomplish. I call it my "I Want to Be The Kind of Girl" list. In the case of last weekend, I wanted to be the kind of girl who could bike 81km in support of finding a cure for MS. I did it. A list like that is a list of things you want to change or accomplish in order to be the best version of yourself. For no one else but you.

So, with no further ado, here is my list. Everything on it has nothing to do with impressing boys, catching boys, wooing boys, or anything other than being the person I strive to be. Once upon a time it was my "Things that Will Make Me an Amazing Wife" list. That list was very different indeed.

I Want to Be the Kind of Girl Who. . .

- Can read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky in the original Russian
- Has a Masters Degree
- Runs a Half Marathon
- Has a New York Times Bestseller
- Cooks a fancy (or not fancy) dinner, while listening to Opera
- Reads the Sunday Times
- Speaks 6 Languages
- Has Visited Every Continent
- Owns a Horse (yes, I am 26 and I still want a pony)
- Knows how to use a Bow & Arrow (archery is cool)
- Makes a Perfect Pie
- Makes it to Everest base camp (I don't want to climb the mountain itself, thanks)
- Looks just as good in lingerie as I do in camp gear
- Goes camping once a year
- Can fix a Car Engine
- Knows how to Salsa, Tango and Swing
- Swims with Dolphins
- Is an Award Winning Photographer

It's an ongoing list, and I know there's more to it. But it's the kind of list everyone should have. It's the list I'll be thinking of next year, when I bike the whole 162km. It's the kind of list I want on my mind instead of "what should I weigh to impress him? What profession isn't threatening to his ego? When should I disagree with his opinions?"

The right guy for me is the guy who loves the girl on that list. And the girl who made the list. And every girl in between.

According to My Inability to Flirt with the Irish

Cute guy comes into work holding a familiar looking form and asks my coworker if we do passports. She asks if it's Canadian, and he says no, and before he can explain I say:

"Oh, that's for an Irish passport, I know that sheet."
"Yea," he says, "it is."
"We actually have the settings for that saved. Awhile back I did them for these two super cute Irish kids. Not that you're not cute. But they were WAY cuter."

According to Tan Lines

Apparently, in Tim's opinion:

- sock shaped tan line on one foot = sexy, boys love that.

- sock shaped BURN on two feet = not sexy, don't tell boys about that.

According to Kody

"Bitches be bitches."

According to the September 2009 Issue of Cosmo

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According to My Boss

J on marriage:

"I view marriage as an institute of slavery designed to make the woman subservient to a man.

I mean, just look at rings? Just put a collar on them and make them fetch! Why not slap a brand on her ass and say 'that's my property!'"

According to Cliched Pick Up Lines

Once, a few years ago when I was still in my typical early twenties need to go to bars on the weekend, and I thought I was really cool because I knew a bar where I never paid cover and was allowed in through the back door, I experienced a moment I'll never forget.

I was waiting in line to get my next drink, when a drunk guy about my age walks up to me and decided to address his opening statement directly to my chest.

"Nice rack." He slurred, not even pretending to look at my face.

I did a bit of a spit take, sans spit, and decided to give this drunk moron the benefit of my sense of humour.

"Uh, thanks?"

Humour, apparently, was not what this guy wanted, because he then followed up with, what will forever remain, the greatest and worst attempt at a pick up line I have ever heard.

"Can I jerk off on it later?"

Again, after momentarily reeling from this, I offer him the benefit of a much less cynical Ashley.

"Haha, uh, no. But that took guts to say, good job." I offered to shake his hand, and he rather indelicately tried to put it on his crotch, at which point I announced, "so, we're done here." And walked away.

In a less vulgar, but still hilariously stupid vein, my boss was recently on the East coast, taking a rather long ferry ride. She and a friend of hers were sitting on a bench, and she became curious about the cover of a book being read by a younger gentleman near by. She craned her neck, turned her head, did all that she could to see the cover stealthily, only to be spotted by the guy before she could.

He began to try having a conversation with her, which she wanted nothing to do with, and finally he insisted a friend of his move so he could sit next to her and then dealt this doozy of a line to her:

"So, I couldn't help but to notice you, noticing me."

She told me this story, and how he subsequently followed her all over the ferry, trying to chat her up, but I just couldn't get past that line. I was laughing to hard to get much more out of the story than that.

According to the Law of Averages

Go out for a few beers with friends. . . totally seems harmless enough, right? It's a beautiful summer evening (albeit a mockery unto itself, since it only gets nice in Winnipeg when summer is reaching its death rattle. I digress. This blog is going to be more chock full of parenthetical references than a Henry James novel.)

Arrive at the local pub wearing some ridiculously unsuitable footwear. What can I say, it's summer, and it's one of the few times wearing 4 inch peep toe shoes won't immediately lead to pneumonia or death. Or both. So I can and WILL wear my ridiculous shoes. And I did.

Long story (made longer by validating my shoe choices) short, I looked half-way decent. And then, as luck would have it, the friend of my friend's boyfriend (my sister's friend's brother's aunt's cousin knew this guy who. . . you know), well, he turns out to be a pretty solid 7 out of 10. Cute, glasses, beard (kissing a dude with a beard is TOTALLY on my bucket list, no shit), beautiful teeth, sense of humor, good story teller. . . you know, decent boyfriend material. My interest is piqued.

I wait for it. Patiently, like a really demented jungle cat, I wait for the words. And sure enough, about 35 minutes into thinking this guy is totally awesome, and I could easily potentially pretend to be drunker than I am and make out with him in his car later. . . he drops the bomb. The "girlfriend" bomb.

My friend Patrick and I came up with a great concept for this bomb when used improperly. We call it "Boyfriend Tourets" and basically it occurs when you innocently ask to platonically hang out with someone, and they reply "I have a boyfriend/girlfriend!"

Thankfully, it did not come to an outburst, it just dropped casually into conversation. But immediately the reaction is all "dammit all, another one bites the dust."

And the lesson herein, as to "why I'm single"?

It is becoming clear that every guy I show any interest in already has a girlfriend.

According to Me

I don't plan to make a habit of this, but today's post is brought to you by Ricard's White (which, indelicately, means that I have had 3 beers, and am therefore not writing a sober post. . . oh Jesus, drunk blogging. . . forgive any spelling or grammar mishaps herein).

So, here it is. Another singleton's blog about being single. But, by way of changing things up, I offer you a new twist on things: this is not a blog about complaining, whining, moaning, bitching, philosophizing as to the demented reason why "oh WHY God did I spend another Friday night alone? Why does no one love me?" Nope. Fuck that, kids. This blog is about me finally learning to not only accept that I am single, but to really embrace it.

It may have taken me 26 years, and a lot of lying to myself, but I can honestly, genuinely (and it's not the beer talking) tell you that I really love where I am in my life. I love the opportunity and freedom that being single allows for me. And fuck knows I love being about to oogle beautiful men at any given moment. (As of this moment, the oogle-ee of my eye is one Alexander Skarsgard, aka Eric Northman on True Blood).

But, being that I haven't really dated since 2004, haven't had sex since last May (almost 16 months if you really need the breakdown), and I have unequivocally the worst lucky humanly possible when it comes to getting mixed signals from men, I have decided to take an in depth look into the reasons for my single status.

These can be genuine reasons (commitmentphobia, abandonment issues), to the outright ridiculous (Cosmo tells me it's inappropriate to disagree with my boyfriend's opinions on things). I want to know why everyone ELSE thinks I'm single. Everyone from Ukrainian grandmothers, to elementary school librarians (the latter of which actually DID have an opinion).

I'm hoping that the absurdity of the reasons may help other singles stop stressing the hell out, and really learn to enjoy time spent with the most important person in your life. You.