Friday, June 22, 2012

Puh-pa Puh-pa Puh-pa Puh-pa Puh-pa-pa. Pump Pump Pum- BLOOD!

What the priest said to me at my last Confession

My grandmother was obsessed with her blood. If there is such a thing as “big-boned”, then my grandmother believed herself to be “big-blooded”. More specifically she was obsessed with the thickness of her blood. She believed that illness could be prevented by maintaining a thin blood flow. She would not eat meat in the summer for fear of thickening her blood and she would not give me my delicious Flintstone vitamins in the summer for the same reason. Instead, she would eat the Filet-O-Fish at McDonalds on Fridays, something she called “the fishy burger”. A Filet-O-Fish is a remarkable feat of engineering in my opinion. Both the patty and the bun are inexplicably smooth with an inoffensive fish odor. That’s kind of a miracle when dealing with fish. In hindsight, I wonder if her desire for the fishy burger stemmed from delicate gums and untrustworthy dentures rather than a fear of thick blood and/or mad cow disease.

I had always suspected this blood management obsession was an old wives tale but she lived to be 99 and a half years old and smoked and drank whiskey for more than 70 of those years so maybe the old bat knew her stuff. It is a known fact that thinner blood means lower blood pressure and this can be important to maintain in later life. She would never donate her blood, either. I once asked her why and she hugged her arms and mumbled “It’s mine! All mine…” staring darkly in the middle distance like an adorable Gollum. One did not question my grandmother too keenly.

I have always enjoyed having blood drawn – probably because I am secretly scared that I have too much of it – and so donating blood would be the natural evolution for a person like me. Not so fast. There is a blood cartel and it’s called The Red Cross. It’s one of the oldest gangs around. This group of soft shoes tyrants have nurse practitioner degrees and they know how to use them. Giving blood is not all it’s cracked up to be in the Calvin and Hobbes cartoons that I use to explain everything Science. My very reasonable expectation is that I lie down on a bed that is quiet, strap on the blood feed bag for the excessively pale and let it pump until someone notices my heart is barely working. Then I get a cookie, a small hospital-size plastic of Tang and maybe some cash for being a good girl. With a wink and wave, I sashay out of there, saying “I come from a long line of blood over-producers, so I’ll see you next week, Toots.”


My first and last time trying to donate went a little something like this: First you have to fill out a form(s). Apparently blood can be unclean. Not thick or thin but UNCLEAN. Holy hell, what kind of world is this? And in order to determine if they even want your blood

read: WHAT THE LIVING FUCK?!? Why won’t you take it from me?!?!?

They ask you a series of progressively personal questions. Questions like Where have you been in the world? What kind of vaccinations have you had? Have you ever used drugs? What kind of drugs? Who gave them to you? When? For how long? etc…

Here is what The Red Cross write on their website under the FAQ:

Why does the Red Cross ask so many personal questions when I give blood?
The highest priorities of the Red Cross are the safety of the blood supply and our blood donors. Some individuals may be at risk of transferring communicable disease through blood donation due to exposure via travel or other activities or may encounter problems with blood donation due to their health. We ask these questions to ensure that it is safe for patients to receive your blood and to ensure that it is safe for you to donate blood that day.

Well, in the interest of being a good-blooded Canadian, I admitted that I had been to 31 countries. Mostly in Europe and Asia. That I had been inoculated against many things, including and not limited to Malaria, Yellow Fever and Japanese Encephalitis (That vaccine cost me $250!). In addition to that I checked the box that confirmed I had - in fact - tried drugs. But it was a long time ago. And so it probably didn’t count.

The young girl who processed me read my form, looked at me carefully and then called her supervisor. The supervisor carefully read my form in perfect silence – did NOT look at me – and asked me to step into another secret room made of MASH-style fabric walls. We sat at a round table and she spoke to me in hushed tones.

It says here that you have used [insert name of really-common-not-legal-but-totally-tolerated drug], is that true?


Why would you do that? she asked plaintively

Not sure. Wanted to try it It was a long time agoI’m sureit’snolongerinmybloodstream.

Well… she sighed. It’s not the [drug] that remains. A lot of girls pay for drugs with sex.


Reader’s Note: I do not know any girls who want to donate blood that have ALSO had to pay for drugs with sex. This is also probably the most hilariously sexist thing I have ever heard. Do they turn away men for the same reason?

Nope, I paid for it with cold hard cash I responded levelly. I was now certain this woman was a lunatic and the whole blood donate thing was a huge waste of time and a way to track embarrassing info for later nefarious use. I wanted to explain further that my “drugdealer” was a woman who worked in a downtown office and wore a suit everyday but I figured the supervisor – who was wearing scrubs - wasn’t listening.

She gently explained that she would not be able to accept my blood because I had answered honestly to this question and that I should come back in 2 years when the statute of sleeping-for-your-drugs-limitations ran out. The short answer is, the blood they are collecting is from honest people who have perfect blood and lying people who are full of toxic chemicals. I am not sure which one I am and so I have never been back.

Sometimes The Red Cross makes the mistake of phoning me. I used to explain that I had been to too many countries and that they did not want my blood. Eventually they called so much that I just ended up screaming at them that I was a drug user and unsuitable. I continue to avoid meat in the summer and anything that could inadvertently thicken my blood. I have learned that getting pregnant DOUBLES your blood capacity in your body, sooooooooo I am going to adopt. But I probably won’t be approved anyway because since that time I have learned to sleep with people for everything from prescriptions to groceries to car washes.

And that is how The Red Cross helped me find my true calling as a crack whore.

Friday, June 8, 2012

The Differences Between a Friend (With Benefits) and a Booty Call. Maybe.

When Booty Calling, be sure to include your name.

It’s obvious that I am pro-marriage, but did you know that I am also pro-SEX? When it comes to sex, it is my personal belief that there is no subject that is more talked that also boasts the least amount of action. I think that people who talk about it the most, do it the least. I have narrowed it down to a mathematical theorem: The amount you talk about sex is inversely proportional to the amount of sex you are actually having.

As you may recall from my experience with Date#40, I am not opposed to the concept of a Friend with Benefits. I feel that not every night of your life needs to be judged as perfect and that sometimes people get swept away for short periods of time with someone who is completely wrong but has the right chemistry. This used to have a name: It was called being “swept away”. Before our era of ultra-control, this relieved an unmarried woman of full responsibility of her actions. Biblically speaking being “swept away” is only a venial sin (not that serious), not a mortal one (extremely serious). However, if you are already married you’ve just committed a mortal sin no matter how “swept away” you may claim to be (extremely serious). I feel that the state of your eternal soul to be worthy of serious discussion so consider yourself fairly warned.

In short, I encourage people to find what gets them off and pursue it, right up until they change their minds to pursue something else. I encourage women to take yes for an answer and not be uptight. However, you must maintain your boundaries and self-care which requires maturity and foresight. Ironically, living your hot sweaty short game takes an enormous understanding of the long-term ramifications. That is why sex is both fun AND confusing.

A Booty Call is a completely different animal. This is where a man calls you up in the middle of the night and …. See that’s the part I don’t get because it has never happened all the way for me.

Let me start again:
I think it is where a guy gets unbelievably hammered and wants to have sex despite not really being able to. So – instead of hiring a prostitute - he texts at 3am and wonders if you can come over. There are a couple of logistical problems that need to be overcome in this scenario.

One, he will need to live completely by himself because otherwise he will be bugging his roommates/parents/wife.

Two, you will need to be awake and interested in this idea enough to go to his place. This is a big jump in my mind. I can’t really see fucking for another hour or so AFTER coming home late from work/ a bar or dancing. There is also a philosophy syllogism here: If you know where his place is and it’s plausible to think you would go there in the middle of the night, then aren’t you in some sort of real relationship anyway? If so, you just lost your Booty Call status and are back to Friends (With Benefits).

Three, this means that whatever you were going to do the next morning, it will have to be re-scheduled, because you will be tired. Remember that part about foresight? You get the Honorary Train Wreck Award if you lose your job over a Booty Call. Not a good look, Single Girl.

Four, a Booty Call apparently means that you leave right after sex because you are not in a relationship; and it even has a cool name, The Walk of Shame. I love sex, so I’m not sure how it’s Shameful. Just to brag: I have done The Walk on a beach in Turks and Caicos as the sun was rising and I can attest it was one of the most beautiful and life-affirming moments of my life.

I don’t like sex when it’s not my idea. A man can convince me it’s my idea if he actually dates me, but being needy for sex on my phone in the middle of the night is not that convincing. Mad Texters who like to Booty Call should ALSO remember that those messages do not seem so sexy when they are being read on Sunday morning while I’m on my way to church... *cue the angels singing*

Or when they are being posted to my blog.

Based on this series of arguments, I feel that a Booty Call is something of a rare unicorn in the dating world. How is it done in real life? Sadly, the “shame” part keeps most girls pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. Dear Reader, you are welcome to post comments.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Date #61: The lo0ser Always Rings Twice

This man sent me a series of messages online alluding to the possibility of meeting for a drink; but he was never all the way clear, and he was fairly good looking. I deleted the messages for two reasons: one, I could feel I was dangerously close to becoming the social director and two, I am making the leap from good looking to good values (which is similar to taking a vow of celibacy) and he was too much of the former.

He sent yet more messages but instead of sticking to my guns, I broke The Rules by giving him my number before he asked. I also included a stupid reminder that he not text me to death. So much for not being the social director! Quick like a bunny he began texting me, angling for a weekend date. It was already Thursday so I deleted them. He tried again the following Monday and since this is a sign of seriousness, I took him seriously. He asked for a night I was free, I suggested Thursday (three days in the future) and he agreed. He circled back on Wednesday to ask for a spot. At this point The Rules advise it is okay to suggest a spot convenient for you, and he has to love it or leave it. He loved it.

Precisely 1 hour before the scheduled date he texted that he needed to be 15 minutes late to make a work phone call. This is bad sign. He knew about the date first, and it should be given top priority. The Rules remind us that any man who is serious about meeting a woman will not pull stunts like this. To put this in perspective, he wouldn't do that to a top client he was trying to sign to a big deal, amirite?
Mostly what he was saying was: Don’t take me seriously. I'm a flake.

However, everyone gets sidetracked. Maybe he was telling the truth or maybe he was sick. I am not trying to win awards for being inflexible; so I responded in manspeak:

"No prob. I'll wait 5 min. Otherwise we can reschedule".

Well, that got him! He wrote back "Deal" and was there early. He was good looking, funny and kept the conversation light and moving. I was calm, not too talkative and laughed at his stories.
I enjoyed one glass of wine and ended the date first. (Point for me!)
He walked me to my car and we pecked goodnight. (Point for him!)

I was walking on air. I figured it would be a good sign if he reconnected within three days. And so I was pleasantly surprised went he sent a text within the hour: "Thanks for the drink. I really needed it :)" I wrote "I had a great time" and he wrote "me too". I prayed he would not write anymore and ruin it. But my prayer was not answered.

The next text was "So what are you looking for from this?" (Read: Is it cool if I booty call you later?)
I was thinking "Awe...Why'dja hafta ruin it?" and that is what I wrote.

As expected, this caused him to reach Rage Level 10. He told me I was a "lo0ser" and not his type. Really? Smart and beautiful with good values and lots of money is not his type? But what he really meant was:
How did you get me here? I didn't ask for your number, I didn't plan the date... I just wanna fuck.

This is why it doesn’t pay to be the Social Director when meeting someone for the first time. He had told me he lived with a lazy broke Australian. He told me it was like living in a frat house and that he loved it. I don't blame him; I used to live in a frat house too (long story) and I loved it. So there he will stay.

But it doesn’t end there, Dear Reader!

The following morning – BRIGHT and EARLY – I received the following message from “Tony from Woodbridge”: (Reader’s Note: Wes is the name of the guy I actually met.)

Don't text strangers. Especially not Tony from Woodbridge.

Anyone who has read this blog knows that this is the first time this has happened. Ever. To Anyone. On Planet Earth. Let me take a moment and point out a couple of things I have learned from Online Dating:

1) People from Woodbridge can’t form sentences.
2) Men do not use the word “date” in text messages.
3) Men do not tell their whole life story to a stranger via text message: “I was on POF and I met this girl named Mary…”
4) Everyone knows that when you do online dating you do not need to write down people’s numbers! Your phone does it for you! (sheesh, I was born at night, but not last night)
5) His order of operations is messed up. Any guy that was going to get a girl’s number would have done so before he planned the date. He would not have planned the date online and then asked for her number as some bizarre afterthought.
6) I have never met a man who confirmed a Saturday night date on a Friday morning at 11am. That is 30 hours earlier than anything I – or The Rules - have ever experienced.

I am fairly certain that this was a prank engineered by Date#61. Bitch Please.