And I’m telling his “story” the details, you know how girl-friends talk.

I’m not talking very loud, as I tend to be soft spoken, if you can imagine that!

We’re chatting away about “baby boy” and all of a sudden this girl from the table next to me leans over.

SIDEBAR: tables in NY tend to be very close together, and sometimes you feel like you are dinning with strangers.

“Are you talking about “baby boy”?”

“Yes” I say with my mouth, but my eyes were totally saying “nosey bitch”

She gives me this look and says with some terrible white girl attitude, “Good luck with that.”

My friend of course jumps in “what the fuck bitch…first off you’re the one in need of luck that we don’t…”

I of course can only giggle at the situation, as my friend is ripping this chick a new one.

She trails off as the girl and her friend sign their cheque and exit.

I could let this situation run for hours in my head, and I’d probably be lying if I said I didn’t want to know what that lanky bad nose, bad teeth chick was talking about, but more likely I just kind of laugh at the ridiculousness that is life, and more likely women…we are crazy sometimes!

Who does things like that?

I’ll mutter things under my breath, make comments or comebacks that might have always been quick on the draw but sometimes may have been inappropriate.

I’ve many times caught myself on a date saying, “I’m sorry we just meet and I’m already making fun of you” which by the way all were funny comments. (I can be hilarious at times)

When I got my big corporate job this had to change. Which some people found funny, as I had to be professional at an establishment many view as quite the opposite. I had got pretty good not saying things, but needed to started mastering the art of not making sounds. You know those sounds of disbelief that escape your mouth when someone would say something utterly stupid in a meeting.

SIDEBAR: I somewhat mastered this…somewhat.

The facial feature looks of disgust I’m still working on. I’m pretty terrible at making faces.

But when I’m comfortable. Truly at easy and enjoying myself I resort back to my old ways, and have a tendency to say things aloud without thinking. In fact many times I say things aloud that I think I am only thinking in my head.

FACT: this may or may not steam from the fact that I spend many hours working from home alone now, and say things to myself out loud.

Well sometimes accidently saying what I’m thinking gets me into trouble and sometimes it’s down right embarrassing:

Things were hot and heavy, and it’s going really good. I’m totally in the moment. We’re both in the moment…. the missionary moment. And the moment is good.

A thought pops in my head.

He stops.

I open my eyes.

He is staring at me with a puzzled but scared and mixed with a little concern look.

“Are you serious?” He says.

“What?”

“Do you?”

Awkward silence, for a minute as he’s looking down at me and I’m looking up.

With shock on my face, “Did I say that out loud!?”

“Did you think you didn’t!?”

“Oh my god! I thought it in my head!” I begin to laugh from mainly embracement.

He beings to laugh.

“I’m so embarrassed…..I didn’t mean to say that out loud”

I’m hiding my face in a pillow I’m so embarrassed but yet I’m shaking from uncontrollable laughter.

After what feels like 15 minutes of us both laughing a silence falls. He reaches over and hugs me, kisses my head and in his best Plum impression repeats what I had said.

“I think I have to fart?”

A friend of mine was in the city filming a movie. She and I aren’t as close as we used to be, and don’t talk all that often, but we had done dinner one night, and talked about being single (she had just broke up with her boyfriend and I was as always single).

Two days later she called me. She had met this guy who worked in locations on her set. She thought he seemed nice, and he was single, and she was setting us up on a blind date.

Now I’ve never had the best luck on blind dates, they usually make me question my friendships…basically I would sit there looking at some guy wondering how what I thought was a good friend would think anything about this person was “right” for me.

But against my better judgment I agreed to meet this guy for a drink. He and I exchanged a few phone calls, and had our after work drinks planed with the option of seeing how it goes and maybe grabbing dinner. He actually said that which I thought was a huge turn off, but I let it go.

He picked this very posh cocktail lounge in Lower Manhattan, which frankly was alittle to stylish for my liking on a first date. He sent me a text saying he would be about 10 minutes late, I was surprising on time, so I texted back saying no worries I’d wait at the bar. I settled into the bar and ordered my very delicious but completely over priced drink.

Upon his arrival he seemed normal. Tall and in a business suit, dark featured, but nothing really to write home about, just seemingly normal. He smiled, I smiled, and we started into the usual blind date get to know you banter.

And then about 10 or 15 minutes into our seemingly ok date (there was nothing really there but the company was nice and the drinks were delicious) He says the following to me, “ I’m glad you sat at the bar and not at a table” “ Why is that” I asked him. And then he said the following as if it was second nature to him,

“ Cause at least at the bar we only have to deal with the one black bartender.”

I gave him a questionable look, in which he then proceeded to rant about how people of pretty much every race but ‘white’ were terrible serves in restaurant, and how he had no idea this place started hiring so many ‘black’ people since he had last been.

I sat there with what was most likely the blankest of blank stares on my face. My jaw may have actually hit the bar. I see from the corner of my eye, the two bartenders frozen where they were staring at us. I feel embarrassed to be with this guy, and sad for him at the same time.

Are these words really leaving his mouth? Is he really in the middle of this bar going on a rant about how he hates black people? And why am I not wearing my Obama T-shirt when I need it?

As he proceeded to continue on some racist banter about something I interrupted him in the only way I could think of at the moment.

“I think I should just let you know that my Dad is black”.

He looked at me as if a bus had just hit him.

“ But you’re white.”

“ I know. I look white, my brother looks black, that is how it works.”

Silence fell. It felt like every eye within a 4-foot vicinity of us had stopped what they were doing and watching the tale I was telling him unravel.

“So you could have a baby that looks black?” He asked me still looking at my ivory white skin in total shock.

“ Oh yeah of course, I could pop out babies black as night.”

This look of terror came over his face, as what I can only described as this fear that he could have gambled with having sex with me and never would have know what he was sticking his penis in unless I had said something.

“ I’m going to go use the ladies room, and when I’m get back I assume you aren’t going to be here” I said as I got up off my chair and walked to the restrooms.

When I returned he was no longer sitting at the bar, and I assume he used what little braincells he had to tell himself leaving was the best option for him.

I on the other hand was greeted by a round of applause from the bartenders and the two people sitting next to us when I returned to the bar area. He apparently had said the following to the one male (‘white’) bartender before leaving:  “she’s half black” with a confused look on his face.

I sat down and had another drink on the house, and the bartenders also picked up the tab that my date had so gentlemanly left me with, which included his $40 glass of whisky.

FACT: I might just be the whitest kid you know.

SIDEBAR: This was the last blind date I ever went on, or will ever go one for that matter.

My cousin has been visiting and we were talking about how people ask her for directions all over the city (something that happens to me often no matter where I travel) and I was saying it must be because we appear to be nice, sweet, approachable Canadians. But no one really knows we are Canadians. We just seem nice, sweet, approachable, and helpful (like most Canadians)

What makes someone approachable? And what doesn’t? I always share the ridiculous pickup lines that guys have used on me, but do I just seem like an easy approachable target that looks sweet enough to fall for their terrible lines or do they really find me attractive?

Do I really have nice, sweet, and approachable (Canadian) written all over my face, or is it just in my head……

One time I had gotten off the subway on my way to an event. I had about 6 bags in hand and it was a hot September night. I got off on one of those stops that are way under ground. You know the ones that take like three levels of escalators before you see the light of day.

As I could see the first set in my view I noticed it wasn’t running as people were clopped up the ’stairs’. Urg…I struggled with my bags up the long (and first) flight of escalator stairs. I started to sweat in my party dress. I was starting to get angry, but after this flight the escalators will work I thought to myself. But then…those weren’t working either. “F-this” I think, and I made my way to the elevator. Now subway elevators freak me out. If you have ever been in a NYC subway elevator you know what I’m talking about and if you haven’t just think on it for a bit.

I push the button and wait. As I’m waiting (the elevators are really slow, I want to mentioned that) this guy makes his way next to me to wait. He’s attractive at first glance, and on crutches as one leg is in a full-length cast. (I start thinking about a broken femur bone, which must hurt like a firey hell as I wait for the doors to open) He smiles, I smile back.

The elevator doors open and I go to walk in (crutches boy had gestured for me to go first) But I stop just past the door as I notice something. There is the corner of the elevator is a big pile of poo. Yes real human poo! “Hells no!” I think to my self, and probably said it out loud too as I go to leave the elevator. As much as I don’t want to climb two sets of escalator stairs with all these bags sweating up my party dress I sure ain’t getting in that slow ass elevator with someone’s feces!

“Wait!” The guy says.

“Pardon” I turn back.

“If I ride up alone when it opens people will think I did it.”

I stare sorta blindly at him.

“You serious?!” I say

“Please. It’s only one floor.” He gives me this look that only a sweet approachable Canadian girl would fall for.

I step in the elevator as close to that door as I can. The doors shut.

I turn back and look at the guy I followed into an already gross NYC subway elevator that just happens to have a pile of poo in the corner.

“If this elevator stops and doesn’t open I will break your other leg!”

He begins to laugh…and laugh hard.

I begin to laugh.

We get off the elevator at street level laughing like I’ve never laughed with a stranger before.

“Thank you so much! You’re really sweet.”

We parted.

This story always leaves me confused. Does being sweet mean you’ll ride with poo for a complete stranger? It may, but it sure smells wrong to me!

We all have those embarrassing sex stories, those elbow to the eye, granny panties, fell off the bed, and the hit my head on a head board stories. And if you don’t have one frankly I don’t think you’re doing sex right!

But these are usually personal. One person fell off the bed, one person burped in the others mouth, and so on.

So rather then telling about what I think is an embarrassing sex story that has happened to me, and believe me there are lots! I thought I’d try to think of what awkward, funny, disastrous sex moment I’ve had that would be the other persons most embarrassing….

Some time ago I was having sex (that’s sorta has to be in this story doesn’t it) and it was good, wonderful and every word you can think of to replace “great”.

Basically, we can say I was very much enjoying myself.

He was ontop and therefore I was below him (the classic missionary) and all of a sudden I feel this strange pressure building up in my lady parts. It was odd, different, not like any feeling I’ve felt like before.

I gave him a funny face as he continued with his ‘business’.

“ummm” my face kind of twisted.

“You ok you want me to stop” he stops but still ontop of me.

“Ummm…..No, but….something feels strange.”

“Bad strange or good strange?” he seemed concerned but obviously his blood wasn’t going to his brain at this moment.

“Kind of bad strange, it kind of hurts”

He backs up, and this pressure that had been building stops, kind of rushes out of me in a strange ‘I don’t know this feeling’ kind of way. And then I notice everything is all wet….

I sorta backup, sit up, and look down.

“Did you just?….Baby! I think you peed in me?!” I say as this look of shock and embarrassment comes over him, and he hides his head and rolls over.

And I of course can do nothing but start to laugh….

SIDEBAR: Apparently guys aren’t supposed to be able to urinate while having an erection, however, my Google searches have proved otherwise….and so has this personal experience.

FACT: I guess this means I’ve dabbled in water sports, although I didn’t ask too.

Like most people I have my drink of choice. I’m a top-shelf gin and tonic girl, extra lime please. However, I love me a good (scratch that) great Mojito!

SIDEBAR: a Mojito is not supposed to be too sweet and when there isn’t a ton of sugar in them they are divine! I have been known to devour quite a few when the occasion arises.

So if you don’t know what a Mojito is that’s cool I’ll forgive you guys, all I will say is a major component is Mint. Yummy yummy crushed up mint.

Here is something I’ve always noticed and always commented on when out drinking Mojito.

I always get a stick! Now I’m sure getting a bit of stick attached to the mint steam has happened to lots of people. But this happens to me every single time. One drink after another, one bartender after another.

I always have this short piece of stick in my Mojito! Always!

Maybe it’s a sign of something. Maybe it’s Dionysus or some other drinking God alluding to facts unknown in life. Maybe my life has been one giant stick, or better yet maybe my dating life, my love life always seems wonderful, seems perfect, is much like a delicious Mojito but deep down inside is a shark little stick, a small flaw getting ready to pock me and bust the bubble.

And then again you never know. Cause about two months ago I went on a amazing first date, and in the spirit of being honest had about 5 (maybe 6) Mojito over dinner, and not one, NOT A ONE had a stick in them….

Hmmm… maybe it was a sign or something.

Let me first say this:

Yes this happened. Believe me and the friend’s shoulders I’ve drunkenly cried on….this happened.

I have no idea when a switch happened, if the switched happened, how long something happened for or what have you all I know and remember are the words being whispered in my ear by him, and he wasn’t where I thought he was.

The aftermath……… (only so you’ll all stop emailing me, not cause I really want to hash back at this topic-guy!)

Two days later I get a text message: “I had a wonderful time can’t wait to see you again.”

I didn’t respond.

Three days later I get flowers at my office.  I don’t remember what the card said but something to the above.

Text message: “Would love to dinner tonight if you’re free?”

I responded:  ”I’m not interested but I’m sure you have someone else in your life who you can take!”

Stumpy: “ Oh that’s just NAME, we hang out a lot. She really liked you.”

NO RESPONSE

The next day.

Text message:  “Didn’t hear back from you. If you want to pick that girl that’s cool too, it doesn’t have to be NAME.”

AND THAT IS THE LAST I HEARD FROM HIM……

On a side note it forced me to take the stairs more at. work

SIDEBAR: This is also a story I’ve sat on for a while. I’ve struggled with on so many levels, but in the end putting it out there is always best, or not. But here we go *deep breath*

You, Me, and the Stump equals three! Part One and Two!

I had noticed Elevator-Hottie since I starting working in the building 5 months ago. Ok, I didn’t notice him I straight up stared and maybe drooled at him. This man was hot, and by hot I mean HAWT!

We always seemed to be stuck in the elevator together, most times alone no matter what time of the day.

I simply chalked this up to fate!

We had exchanged a few smiles back and forth (god he had great teeth) but other then that, he watched the elevator TV and I pretended to be doing something important on my phone while I checked out his hot ass in his nice suit!

I worked late that night and as I was leaving the office around 8pm, I clicked the down button.

The door opened and there stood his tall gorgeous frame. (If I were a guy I would’ve got an instant hard on)

He smiled. I quickly looked down at my phone.

Elevator-Hottie: Can I just say something?

I looked up, mouth open from shock and stared at his beautiful face. I did not say anything, I don’t think I even nodded, but may have turned bright red.

Elevator-Hottie: You’re gorgeous! I’d love to take you to dinner sometime, if you’d like and are available.

I keep staring, drool may or may not have fallen from my mouth.

“Ummmm…(What ever I said here was most definitely babble and I fear evening thinking about it. I’ve blocked it from my memory)”

Elevator-Hottie: Can I get your card?

“Umm…yeah…sure” I fumbled for a card.

Elevator-Hottie: “I always wondered what you did at ‘the magazine with boobies’……”

His voice trailed off as he got off the elevator. I was planted firmly in my place still in shock and awe from the fact he even talked to me. ME!?! Did he just ask me out? HE asked ME, (ME?!) out!?!

The elevator doors closed!

SIDEBAR: I am an idiot!

I press the button the doors open (as I am already on the first floor). I walk out he is gone and there is Tom my favorite of our night security desk guys. “Smooth, very smooth!” He says with a smile.

I blew it! I totally blew it! Oh well.

But I get a phone call that night, and it was Elevator-Hottie. Seriously, I was now staring to believe in this ‘fate’ stuff.

Our first date was to be an after work drink. Although in all honesty I didn’t go to work till the end of day cause I was picking out the perfect outfit, getting my hair just right, doing nails, and all the girl (yes sometimes I’m like that) stuff!

We had a seemingly perfect first date. We had great conversation, I didn’t get to drunk (a usual first date flaw on my part) we ended up grabbing dinner, all in all a great date. As we were saying our goodbyes he gave me a “had a great time” accompanied by a pat on the shoulder.

He hates me. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that third drink, maybe I talked to much, I probably swore to much, maybe it’s cause I made fun of him…..urg such is my life!

But he called me. And he kept calling me.

Now Elevator-Hottie was everything you’d want in a man, especially in a Manhattan man. Tall, unbelievable handsome, very well educated, good family, owned his own apartment with a park view (and not stand on the toilet  in the bathroom tilt your head kind of view, we’re talking a view!) He had great job, and he even a summer house.

Date number 12 rolls around and the most action I’ve gotten is a peck on the lips and a pat on the back hug. And a few flower arrangements sent to my office.

I mean come on, a girl cant wait forever. In my dating world 12 dates is pretty much an engagement! So you better pony up! I was so confused by the situation, and never been in one like this before. Plus, I like sex so I was alittle upset on that front too.

I was also struggling with him because as perfect on paper as he may have been. He really didn’t make me laugh. OK, I shouldn’t say that he was funny he would make any normal girl laugh alot. But I need and want a guy who makes me spit out my drink, maybe pee my pants just alittle bit laugh! (It’s a requirement)

My friends all pushed me towards the ‘perfect on paper’ and said to ignore the other details.

Oh right, I’m forgetting that one other detail. You see for all his great perfect on paper points, there’s one little thing he didn’t have.

One quality mister-perfect-elevator-hottie-on-paper was missing.

Actually, it was more of an appendage then a quality. You see Elevator-Hottie was missing his left leg below the knee. He had a prosthetic, no leg, a whatever you want to call it………There was no leg!

So I rationalized his lack of physical contact as a shyness of his stump.

Maybe it was all scared up and nasty! Maybe it was shaped funny. Maybe he was scared I’d want to lick it during foreplay.

All I knew was if he didn’t take my pants off on this our 14th date, it’s over.

Leg or no leg : Over!

I get a Text message: Instead, why don’t you come over and we’ll order in and watch a movie.

Thank you Jesus! Come over and watch a movie IS and has always been code for come over and have sex!

But now I was terrified. I frantically spent hours googling sex with one legged men, and so on. These results turned up nothing but scary porn, and creepy craigslist ads.

This was it. You see if the sex is amazing, I guess I can get over the lack of gut hurting laugher. Plus, I was starting to really like him. NowI was more nervous then excited.

I show up at his apartment. I walk in the door and he jumps me. Wow! Like throws me against the wall, jumps me.

Where did this guy come from?

Lips are intertwined, arms are throwing and ripping off clothes. This one legged Hottie was on a mission! And his mission was me!

We take this action into the bedroom. We’re doing it, and we’re doing it. Oh and we’re doing it! And it was really great. And did I mention the view of the park from the bedroom!? The whole thing was hot and amazing!

I’m in the moment. Really in the moment, and then he decides he wants to take a trip…downtown !

And as I lay there with my eyes closed enjoying his downtown adventure I hear a soft whisper in my ear.

“She’s good isn’t she.”

I look over. I look down. I look over. I look down. I look…I look DOWN!

And there between my legs is this mass of grey hair.

I jump back! So fast and hard I hit the headboard and the back of my head started to bleed.

There at the foot of the bed is this …..Old Lady.

Now not just old, we’re talking tales from the crept, old lady boobs to her knees, fucking Old Lady OLD!

As I’m picking up my stuff I’m speechless. More shocked then when he asked me out in the elevator. I kept looking at him and his perfect body his mouth was moving, something about it being ok, how he wants me to stay. I kept looking at her with her really not perfect body saying something about how he was right I am really pretty.

And I couldn’t say anything. Maybe it was just the surprise of it, maybe it was the feeling that I was pretty much just violated by an old woman, or maybe it’s because I hit my head so hard I was pretty sure I was dying of a brain bleed. I was shaking and in shock, and just wanting to leave.

As I ran out in my jacket, one shoe and holding everything else I came in with. I walked into the bar across the street asked where the bathroom was and said I was coming back for shots!

As I put my clothes on I held back tears. I don’t know why exactly, but I had never wanted to be more loved and cherished by a man then in that moment. It sounds odd I know, but all I could think was why couldn’t I meet a nice guy, why does every guy I meet need to be an asshole douchebag or a freak. Why won’t anyone ever just love me. What was wrong with me?

Because just when you think someone is perfect on paper you realize their grandmother is doing the book keeping from inside the closet, or under the bed, or wherever one hides a walking swinger of a corpse!

My favorite moments of this trip besides some nice sun therapy and the spa would have to be my late night phone calls with Mr. Popular while sitting on the balcony.

Mr. Popular and I had been chatting/texting/IMing for months, and had had a few in person adventures!

I got home to NYC red and ready to hand in my paper. I also was thinking somewhat dreamy thoughts of Mr. Popular. This was one of the only time I can remember of where I actually really contemplated us as a “couple” and in a real “relationship”.

Problem being I didn’t think he felt the same way at all. I was pretty convinced we had moved into the ever wonderful “friendship” zone. He treated me like a ‘girlfriend’ but just never touched me like one….or at least how I assumed all guys touch their girlfriends.

I was getting ready to go to bed early, as I get tired from plane rides, and I get a phone call.

Mr. Popular is in my hood and right up the street. He wants to come over and see me. Holy shit balls!

We talked laughed and joked around for hours into the night. Just lying on my bed talking. Only times he got off the bed was to take a smoke break. His smoke breaks consited of him at my window, stradling my ratiator so he was half out the window and half inside the bedroom.

As the hours flew by I became more and more convinced we dove deeper into the “friend zone” and pretty soon the sun was close to coming up.

SIDEBAR: I was pretty cool with friend zone, but starting to question his sexuality at this point. What guy lies in bed for hours with a girl and doesn’t try anything?

We were laying talking laughing and then all of a sudden he leans in and kissed me.

There it was! Wow!

“Did you just kiss me?”

He kissed me again!

And then he stopped stared in my eyes and jumped up!

“I have to go!”

He bolted, ran, left quicker then Kiefer Sutherland throws back a shot of whiskey.

And I went to bed with the sun coming up feeling rejected: Sad, lonely, and rejected.

Until I awoke to find I had company in bed with me.

There were feathers and bird poo all over as pigeons had flown in and taken up residence in my room through his open “smoke break” window.

Maybe first kiss birds really do appear. And maybe sometimes in the form of gross dirty New York City pigeons!

Now unless my father asks this post is about me losing my virginity. If he asks this is a guest post by some dirty sinner! (Shame on you dirty sinner!)

People who know me are always surprised when the topic of “first times” comes up, and age is thrown on the table.

I was a late bloomer, not as late as other people I know, but to the masses I probably am.

I lost my virginity to “firstguy” when I was 19. There was nothing particular exciting, special or interesting about that evening, except I was 19. It was my birthday.

FACT: This is NOT the reason I dislike celebrating my birthday.

We were in my parent’s basement watching a movie. Braveheart, I only remember the movie cause ‘firstguy’ had a love for watching the same movies over and over again. Braveheart was one of these. I’ve seen that movie far more times then I would like to admit. (Far too many in like a two-year period)

Somewhere between Mel Gibson speaking with a Scottish accent and someone dying we had sex.

That is all I remember. No real detail about what was said or what was done, we just did more than the usual. And at that time more then the usual meant sex.

You always hear about sex hurting, and being painful and all that jazz. I don’t clearly remember that but if my memory serves me correctly I’d like to say that my first time as a girl didn’t hurt, or at least it didn’t cause me pain. But it was uncomfortable.

Kind of like when you tie your shoe too tight. You know that it doesn’t feel right, it’s alittle uncomfortable and it hurts to walk the first few steps, you know you just sense that something you did might not be right. But after that it loosens up and it’s like nothing wrong ever happened.

SIDEBAR: That analogy sounded cleaner in my head.

So there it was I was 19. One year older. I could vote, drink, and I wasn’t a virgin.

‘Firstguy’ was terrible at alot of things. Gifts were one of them, unless you count flowers. That boy bought me more flowers than Kiefer Sutherland buys rounds of shoots.

It was my birthday (and my first time) and all my boyfriend got me was cake, a Mr.Bean teddy-bear, Mel Gibson and a broken hymen.