A Cinderella Story

So today I was sending out thank-you e-mails to the people who donated to my Relay For Life team, and I got a response from a certain reader of this blog saying that they were happy to do so, but included a request of "Now write some more dang blog entries already, wouldja??"

Unfortunately, I have had but one thing on my mind lately, and that is romance.  Yes, I am officially one of Those People, for more reasons than one.  So I will be happy to oblige, but that means you're stuck with another damned post wherein I will be more sappy than snarky.  But I shall do my best to keep the sap in check and bring the snark as much as possible, no matter how obnoxiously happy I might be.  Thus, I present the following fairy tale:

 

Once upon a time, there was a lovely (if by "lovely" you mean "she's kind of got that Tina Fey/hot librarian thing going on") young lady who spent a lot of time goofing off toiled endlessly in a cushy lab dungeon.  One weekend, her really cool boss evil overlord let her go to a conference even though she wasn't presenting anything made her work all weekend in the evil kingdom of Hamilton.  Normally, the smartass punk charming young lady would be happy to oblige, but on this particular weekend, she was suffering from some sort of raging tonsilitis herpes Bubonic plague.  Since she didn't have time to find someone to take her place had already stayed home sick for two days, she felt obligated to go to the evil kingdom.  Besides, she might scrape up a job offer make some connections for her really cool boss evil overlord.  It would really be okay that she COULDN'T SWALLOW WITHOUT MANUALLY RELOCATING HER TONSILS and would be HOPPED UP ON Sudafed CRACK AND ibuprofen PAINKILLERS while tolerating TOTAL IMMERSION WITH HER LABMATES FELLOW OPPRESSED PEOPLES for more than 24 continuous hours a fortnight or some other intolerably long period of time.

Cinderella knew she shouldn't have gone as soon as she got lightheaded on the subway felt faint on her horse halfway to the downtown meeting point castle.

Then she fired up her computer magic mirror to check her e-mail do a couple of tiresome chores before meeting her fellow oppressed peoples.  And it promptly crashed lost its magic powers.

Upon meeting her fellow oppressed peoples, it then took approximately twice as long as it was supposed to to get their minivan chariot to its intended location in the evil kingdom of Hamilton.  Have I mentioned that getting Cinderella's fellow oppressed peoples to so much as go to lunch together bears a striking resemblance to herding cats?  And that "supposed to" had already built in an extra half hour for getting lost/getting a late start/encountering a random Cthulu en route?  And that her crack and painkillers had been wearing off somewhere around the time that they left the magical kingdom of Toronto and she was waiting for a source of cold water to take more because warm water was too hard to swallow?

Cinderella was ruing the day she decided to leave the comfort of her big white comfy throne in her basement apartment dungeon.

But Cinderella got checked into her dorm elegant chambers and took her medicine and got through the plenary lecture royal proclamation without incident.  And most of dinner as well.

Except Cinderella had been put in charge of ordering the wine at dinner.

And overestimated the number of people drinking said wine.

And had to pick up the slack.

 

So Cinderella now has:

Bubonic Plague? Check.

An overabundance of wine in her system (which, by the way BURNS LIKE PARIS HILTON'S VAJAYJAY ON THOSE TONSILS)? Check.

An...oh holy crap, is that really what time it is? Check.

And, of course, a drunk dial magic letter to a certain Prince Charming before going to bed.

Passed the fuck out.

 

Five hours later....

Cinderella drags her ass out of bed gracefully arises and meets her fellow oppressed peoples for breakfast.  WHICH BURNS.

Cinderella sits through an entire day of talks.  From 8:30 to 5:30.  ON A SUNDAY.

Cinderella can feel a low-grade fever coming on every time her ibuprofen wears off.  But takes another dose and it goes away.  But she still can't really swallow without manual intervention.

Cinderella eventually piles her exhausted ass into the chariot for the return trip home.  Have I mentioned that Cinderella was officially Over listening to her fellow oppressed peoples' mindless yammering approximately 24 hours ago?

And they are STILL GOING?

They are the fucking Energizer bunnies of inane, high-pitched conversation.

So she sends a text magic message to Prince Charming.

"I am in hell."

She is finally back in town released from her imprisonment when they return to the magical kingdom of Toronto, and she stops by the dungeon to get her things in order before descending upon Prince Charming's castle. 

 

Prince Charming greets her with a hug.

He pulls a big comfy chair into the kitchen scullery.  He calls this "the chef's table."

He pours Cinderella a glass of wine. 

And asks to hear all about her weekend.

WHILE HE COOKS.

He presents Cinderella with two brown paper bags.  Both have odd noises emanating from them.

One contains BC spotted prawns.  Live ones.  Feisty suckers.

The other contains a live lobster.  Not quite as feisty.

The lobster gets steamed and incorporated into a Thai soup base of coconut milk, lemongrass, garlic, ginger, kaffir lime leaves, and chilis. 

The prawns get steamed and served with drawn butter.

There is also corn on the cob.

And a deck to eat all of this on.

Have you ever come back from a genuinely shit couple of days to someone who is making you a truly fantastic dinner?

Yeah, neither have I.

Cinderella was also presented with a care package.  Which included a bottle of wine, 4 different varieties of chips (because he didn't know which kind I she liked), and a box of Pocky.  You know, just because "everybody likes Pocky."  I'm sorry, but that's just fuckin' adorable.

Cinderella and Prince Charming ate their amazing dinner, then retired for a snuggle and to finish watching Before Sunrise (one of Cinderella's favorite movies that they had started watching a few days before when Prince Charming was sick, and had to postpone because HIS medicine had kicked in) while finishing off the wine.  And then...well...I'll just be brief and say that Cinderella and Prince Charming had a very good night. 

And a VERY good morning.

Will they live happily ever after?  Who knows.  But DAMN was that the sort of night that only happens in the most overactive of pubescent girl imaginations and Julia Roberts movies. 

Fairy tales CAN come true.

Breaking up is hard to do... (Part 3)

When we left Wahooty, she had been mercilessly stood up by The Toddler.  Would he prove to be her evil arch-nemesis?  Tune in tonight for the exciting (albeit probably WAY too long because you pansies can't handle another cliffhanger) conclusion!

 

So, upon being stood up, the following train of thought hurtles through my brain: "Why would he do that?  We were talking about this just yesterday.  What kind of asshole would just up and ditch me after the way he's been talking to me?"

A sane, fair-minded individual might also ask, "What kind of asshole would make plans to see fireworks with someone who is not her boyfriend?"

THIS kind of asshole.  You want the rest of the story or not?

Total asshole quotient (TAQ): minimum 1, possibly as much as 2.

So anyway, I figure there are two possibilities: 1) he is a particularly unspeakable variety of asshole, or b) something bad...really, really BAD...has happened.  The Toddler rides his bike EVERYWHERE, and considering the number of cyclists I know that have been hit by cars and such in the last couple of years, I'm thinking the latter is a distinct possibility.  There's also always the possibility he met someone hotter than me and less...spoken for.  So I send a harmless, breezy text his way around sundown. 

"What...did you find someone your own age to play with tonight?"

Hear nothing.

The next day, I am starting to get concerned, so I send another text.
"Okay, what gives?  Is there a reason you stood me up last night?"

The next day, I finally get a response.

"Sorry...my dad has been sick.  Had to take him to the hospital."

Now, my cynical old-fart self still believes there are two possibilities: 1) He is exactly the variety of unspeakable asshole that would LIE ABOUT HIS FATHER'S HOSPITALIZATION, or b) I am a rat bastard for making him feel badly about standing me up when there was a family emergency going on.

TAQ: have to add at least 1 to our previous total...we're now looking at a 2+

So, since the odds are firmly resting on b) at this point, I text my apologies and ask if the Dad is okay.

The next day, I get confirmation that he is, in fact, doing much better, and that The Toddler feels badly about standing me up.

This text message happens to come in at the end of a long day.  I have gone out with one of my friends, and then met up with friends of friends, and had a few beers.

This is vital to the direction this story is about to go.

One of the friends of friends had managed to piss me off with a blanket statement about "ignorant Americans."  Now, to be fair, this FoF did not know that I was American.  Nor that I was of Ignorant-American descent.  She did not realize she was in a mixed-race gathering.  At any rate, it gave me a great excuse to say my goodbyes, and go back to my lab to gather my things and simmer down a bit before heading home.  This is when the text came in.

So I text back, "Don't worry about it.  Make it up to me when you can relax and enjoy it."

"How about tomorrow during the day?"

"How about right now?  I'm still downtown."

TAQ: The previous 2+1+ whatever his motives are = probably at least a solid 3.5 by now

It turns out, he is at a concert just a couple of blocks from my lab.  So I walk down and meet up with him when it lets out.  After saying hi to his friends, we excuse ourselves and find a patio to have a drink on.  And ramble on about all of that inconsequential shit I haven't talked about since I was a college kid.  When finding common musical tastes or favorite movies makes you all gooey inside.

 

A little heads-up: it still can. ESPECIALLY when you've both been drinking.  Which, let's face it, you were in your college kid days too.

 

So after last call, we leave our little patio time-warp and walk back to where his bike is parked, on a busy street corner.  He says something like, "I guess this is where we go our separate ways, what with our social boundaries and such..."

And I say, "what social boundaries?"

I know.  I KNOW.  TAQ is fully one louder at this point.  That's right, we're all the way up to 11.

So The Toddler is not stupid.  This is the point where we start making out.

On a very busy street corner.

Just after last call.

Some people walk by making catcalls about how we seem to be having a good time.

One girl walks by with her friends and comments, "That's HOT." as she passes.

We really don't care too much because, fuck it, it IS hot.

Then, the fateful conversation:

"Do you want to come home with me?"

"I can't say yes.  But I can't bring myself to say no."

Yes, I actually said that shit.  This bitch has apparently been watching WAY too many Lifetime and/or softcore porn flicks.  I know.  I am thoroughly ashamed of myself for not at least coming up with a better line.

TAQ: Oh, let's round up to an even 20.

This is the point where he hails a cab.  This is also the point where I will warn any ex-boyfriends/relatives that I don't know read this that you may want to stop if you don't want WAY too much information.  Okay, who are we kidding - this is me, and I won't get graphic, but you've been warned, a la those little title cards at commercial breaks that tell you "This program contains mature subject matter.  Viewer discretion is advised." 

We get back to his place.  En route, I have pointed out the building I work in because HE IS ACTUALLY INTERESTED.  In fact, he finds my building hot.  He is a total geek at heart.  So after a quick bathroom run, we start making out again in the living room.  And proceed to have seriously hot sex on the floor.  To the girls in the audience, you know on Sex and the City, when Carrie sleeps with Big on the first date?  And they cut from them making out in the limo to the two of them entangled in sheets on the bedroom floor RIGHT NEXT TO THE BED?  I have always watched that and thought, "Who DOES that???  There's a bed RIGHT THERE!!!!"

Well, apparently, I do.

Except we didn't make it as far as the bedroom.  I never had sex that good in my relationship with The Boy, and it's not just a matter of the forbidden fruit factor...The Toddler and I are just...very sexually compatible.  I had put certain aspects of my sexuality on a shelf for quite some time, and finally got to dust them off. 

So we Dusted for a while.

And then we sat up talking, drinking water, playing music (including an adorable yet slightly disastrous attempt on his part to play the guitar and get me to sing somewhere around 4am), and making toast.  Yep, we needed a snack, so he made toast.  And Plated it.  Cut it up, arranged it on a plate, and dusted it with cinnamon sugar.  He's a chef, remember?  I can't make this shit up.

Around 5am we went to bed.

And about 3 hours later we Dusted again.

TAQ: oh, like, a gajillion.  Because at this point, I am sober.  And cheating on my boyfriend.  And not regretting it, even though any decent person would.

But we get up.  And I throw on a borrowed t-shirt and basketball shorts.  And we go out to get groceries, so he can make me breakfast. 

Breakfast: an omelette, with green onions.  Served on toast.  With spicy salami fried until crispy.  And a side salad of tomatoes, accented with tiny lettuce and basil leaves picked from his little deck garden.  Eaten on the deck.

If you know me even a little bit, you know I have no defenses against such things.  I am officially putty in his hands.

We go back to bed to get some actual sleep.  We're doing that napping thing where you doze off for an hour here, half hour there, and every time I catch him waking up, a big goofy grin spreads over his face as he pulls me into his shoulder nook.  When we wake, the gloomy, overcast morning has turned into a GORGEOUS afternoon.  So he suggests we go for a walk through Kensington Market.  We shower, we head out, we look at hipster t-shirts (as Toddlers do) and wonderful ingredients you can't get anywhere else in the city.  We meet one of his friends (a food stylist for the Food Network) and peruse cookbooks.  We have tacos on a patio.

By now, I am a complete goner.  I have been with The Toddler for about 20 hours and not gotten tired of him.  Only on very rare occasions does his age show itself, which surprises me.  And if you can get past the baby-face factor, he is far better-looking than I ever realized (funny how you figure that out after you've seen someone naked).  And most importantly, I have NEVER felt this way about The Boy.

So we part ways, because he needs to go home and nap before going out with his buddies, but by the time I resurface from the subway, there is a text on my phone telling me he had "an amazing time."

 

And I get back to my computer, to find an e-mail from The Boy.  He has worked out a deal to work his Army exercise from his home base in Oshawa this weekend, so do I want to meet up tomorrow night for a beer?

 

TAQ: ah, shit.

 

I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason.  This is a total gift from fate...you want out?  Then get it!

But dear Lord, I have already told you how difficult this is going to be, and I have to do it TWENTY-FOUR HOURS FROM NOW????  I am freaking the fuck out.  My stomach is in complete knots.  I can't enjoy the memory of the last 24 hours because it's not done yet.  It's not done until I'm Single.

So I fret to Em over IM about how to do it.  What to say.  I fret to myself about what to wear, when to leave, whether to come right out with it or hang out for a while before I start The Conversation.

I text The Boy to let him know I'm on the bus.  Seriously sick to my stomach.  He calls to ask what I want to do for dinner - we can walk to Teddy's, or he can go to the Euro Deli and get cold cuts to have with a beer on the deck.

Deck...urg...don't want to do that.

So I say, "I don't know, let's just see what we feel like when I get there."

I arrive at his door.

He asks if I'm okay.

My answer is no.

I'm unhappy.  I have been realizing that I spend more time unhappy than happy, and I don't want that anymore.

He nods sympathetically.  Anything I can do to help?

Actually, it's you and I that I'm unhappy about.

"I had a feeling..."

(It should be noted that I am feeling absolutely wretched while I say this.  He actually feels sorry for me.  This makes me feel worse.)

He offers me a Diet Coke, which I gladly accept.  We make small talk to avoid the topic at hand.  We sit down on the couch, and he stops and says, "should I keep talking about this, or should we talk about what we were talking about before?"

"I don't know what to say."

"Well...let's start with this.  Do you still want to be in a relationship?"

I squeak, "No."

And we go on from there.  He takes it awfully well - almost insultingly well, since it seems he's been mentally rehearsing this moment ever since I accepted a second date.  He's not actually surprised - HE ACTUALLY TELLS ME I SHOULDN'T SETTLE.  We establish that both of us want to be friends, and he seems overly concerned with making this as easy on me as possible. 

And then we order pizza and watch Tropic Thunder.

Oddest.  Breakup.  Ever.

Finally, I give him a long hug goodbye, and take the long bus ride home.  During which, I text The Toddler, "Well...I am now officially Single.  Just in case you know anyone who might find that information interesting."

 

TAQ: a googleplex.

 

So where do The Toddler and I stand now?  Well, we've seen each other a couple of times this week, and each already taken care of the other when we've gotten sick.  I am still suffering from what I think is a sinus infection, thus the tardiness of this post.  But despite all of that, I am thoroughly smitten.  I haven't been this giddy about someone since the VGLM, and this giddy about someone who actually seemed nearly as giddy about me in...well, a long freakin' time.  So long my cynical old-fart self can't even remember.  And while I don't know where this is going on his end, I know that when I get stupidly, blindly infatuated like this, it doesn't go away quickly.  So only time will tell if this is perfection, disaster, or just another relationship.  But for now, I'm happy, I've started dropping weight like crazy, and I'm getting laid.  Our mutual friend has pronounced us "really, really sweet together" and any friend I tell about him seems to be really excited for me.  And I find myself caring a hell of a lot more about finding a job that will keep me in Toronto.

 

And I will henceforth refer to him as Ashton, because The Toddler is seriously creepy once we've had all the sex.  Just call me Demi.

 

And most of the time I've been writing this post, I've been IMing The Boy for the first time since we broke up a week ago.

 

TAQ: INFINITY.

Breaking up is hard to do… (Part 2)

Previously on The Alchemist…

So Wahooty has met a couple of really neat people and had a great time doing so.  Which is good, because Wahooty needs more friends – the only people she generally hangs out with are her co-workers and friends of The Boy.  Which is nice, but she needs some outside friends to keep things interesting.

But she can’t seem to get her mind off of one of those friends.  And his…salmon.  So a couple of days later, she decides to Google him.  The primary reason is that he is very young, and didn’t want to divulge his actual age.  When badgered, he sized up her face, clearly trying to figure out what might be deemed an acceptable answer, and said, “27.”

Now, I KNOW he is lying, but I am curious as to how far the truth is actually being stretched.  Since this guy is a chef, and has done some personal cheffing and catering, I’m thinking he has an online presence.  Maybe even some little interviews or articles written about him.  Sure enough, I found a couple of interviews/features.  One is dated about a year ago, and he is quoted as saying, “I’m only 22, but…” yadda yadda yadda.  So the guy I’ve had on the brain is, in fact, all of 23 big boy years old.

The chef will now be referred to as The Toddler.

So I text him.  The text simply says, “27, my ass!”  Which starts up a little flirtatious banter…which leads to him saying he’d like to see me again.  This is the point where I inform him I have a boyfriend, and does he still want to hang out with me knowing that?  He says yes.

 

As all of this texting is going on, The Boy and I had a big weekend of Fancy events.  Friday night was the Chem Club Spring Formal (aka Chemistry Prom), and Saturday night was a Regimental Ball (aka Army Prom).  Even before Chemistry Prom gets going, The Boy is already on my nerves.  He is 40 minutes late getting to my house.  And not yet dressed.  And wants to borrow my iron.  I find myself really resenting the fact that I am being forced to Mother him.  When we get to Chemistry Prom, he won’t dance with me.  Not that I asked him to, but when he saw that I clearly enjoy dancing and am kind of good at it, he spent the rest of the night either being deliberately lame and goofy on the dance floor or apologizing and going to sit down at the table and have another drink.

If you’re too self-conscious to dance among CHEMISTS, you’ve got some issues.

Now, this may seem like a small issue, but I really do love to dance.  And back in the days when I was being matched on eHarmony, I would often get sent the question, “What’s one interest you have that you would hope your partner would share?”  I generally answered dancing.  Not that I need to date Gene Kelly, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life not dancing at weddings because my husband is too self-conscious.  My mom has lived with that for 38 years, and it doesn’t look like too much fun.  Unfortunately, in the case of The Boy, it was the one time I answered differently – I had put down something about theater instead.  Caveat emptor and shit.

So…not a great night overall.  Went home and went to bed, got up the next morning and relocated to Oshawa for Army Prom.  Same story, different dress.  I thought maybe I’d at least get some slow dances in – this was a different crowd…older…stuffier…the DJ played lots of old standards. 

He danced with me exactly once.

At the time, it really wasn’t bothering me, but after it had some time to percolate it really started to get to me.  I mean, I think I looked pretty good BOTH of those nights.  I actually took some TIME putting on my makeup…and put actual Product in my hair.  And I must have done something right because he stood at the bus stop with a goofy grin on his face, just staring at me until I asked him what was up.  He should have been chomping at the bit to hold me close on a dance floor when I looked good enough to make him “feel really lucky.”  But he’s just not a go-getter kind of guy, and that’s the fundamental reason we broke up.  He even introduced me to a couple of Army buddies who didn’t believe I existed.  Then, after meeting me, quietly informed him that he was punching above his weight.  This has been a constant theme among his friends and even his family, and he never hesitates to tell me that they all think that.  Can I really be faulted for starting to believe it?

 

So at this point, the decision has pretty much already been made.  If I can’t even enjoy a dress-up fantasy weekend with him, the odds of me ever enjoying regular daily life with him are slim.  I’m just trying to give him the benefit of the doubt a little longer to see if I change my mind again, as I have a couple of times before.  But I am pretty much checked out of the relationship, and just trying to figure out the best way to get out.  I mean, breaking up with this guy is like sucker-punching a panda.  And while I’m not in love with him, I still care about him deeply and worry about how he’ll deal with it, even if I am convinced it’s the best thing for both of us.

 

Meanwhile, over the course of the next week or so, I continue texting The Toddler.  We make plans to hang out.  I am already starting to notice that when I am unhappy, hearing from him makes me feel much better.  I think there might be potential for real feelings there, but won’t know for sure until I see him again.  And I have managed to catch Em in a drunken, weak moment where she admits she’d like to see me date The Toddler.  Apparently, I have never talked about The Boy the way I talk about him, and she has tried to stay impartial, but I owe it to myself to see if there’s something there.  So on the day of our plans, I shower, agonize over an outfit, put on makeup and do my hair while waiting for him to call to confirm plans like he said he would do the day before.

 

{crickets}

 

The phone never rings.  A text message never comes.

 

I’ve been stood up.

 

BY A TODDLER.

 

 

Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion!

Breaking up is hard to do… (Part 1)

So…this weekend I did something I have honestly never done before. I broke up with someone in order to date someone else.

Now, to be fair, this is not the first time I’ve met someone that shocked me into realizing I needed to get out of whatever I was in. But those people are generally fleeting, and then I break up, and I spend some time alone, and then move on in an organic fashion.

Lemme back up. First of all, some of you said from the beginning that The Boy and I were unlikely to work out. There was the distance. There was the snoring. But, unbeknownst to most of you, there was also the unemployment and the complete lack of knowing what he wants to be when he grows up. Over many months of being understanding and supportive, I grew tired of having the following conversation:

“So tell me about this guy! How did you meet?”

“Online.”

“Oh. What does he do?”

“He used to work full-time for the Army, as a reservist on a full-time contract. His contract ran out and he is currently unemployed, aside from his reserve duties every month.”

{crickets}

“Well…what does he want to do?”

“He doesn’t really know.”

“What is his degree in?”

“History.”

Things can only degenerate from here. Not only does this conversation make him look like a Loser (which, BTW, he is NOT), but it also makes ME look like one for still liking him. Small talk does not cover the fact that he is kind, and generous, and would do anything to make me happy. It does not account for the wonderful potential father factor, or how smart he is, or the way he makes me giggle when we’re snuggled up in bed. It does not express how he would do anything I wanted, if I ask.

The problem is, I grew tired of having to ask.

I’d rather have a guy voluntarily do what I want half of the time, than do exactly what I want 90% of the time he is asked. That’s just how I roll. And, if we’re being honest, in reality it was more like 50-75%. And a lot of this started to really hit home a couple of weeks ago when my Mom visited…never underestimate a weekend of girl talk with Mom. And my mom and I aren’t really “girl talk” kinds of people – when we have girl talk, it’s Important.

So after a couple of days of really good conversations, certain things stuck with me.

“All of his friends love me. And they tell him, ‘you’ve finally found the perfect girl for you.’”

“Beth, you’re the perfect girl for a LOT of guys.”

My mom rules. She doesn’t dole out the compliments lightly. It’s weird any time I realize my mom ADMIRES me.

And we had similar conversations about my dad. My mom loves him. Doesn’t know what she would do without him. But my dad is annoying. And I am probably the only person on the planet that can understand just how lovable AND annoying he can be as well as she can. Not even my brother can relate as well as I can.

The Boy reminded me of my father in mostly the wrong ways.

So, the day after Mom left town, I had signed up for a molecular gastronomy demo at the St. Lawrence Market. You may recall that I find the whole MG thing fascinating…more from a Mr. Wizard perspective than from a culinary one, but it is the perfect cooking event for a science dork like me. I had signed up for it a couple of weeks before, with the rationale that for $40 I was getting dinner and an evening’s entertainment. That’s cheaper than most plays, and I might meet one or two of the people from Chowhound, since that’s where I had heard about it. I have not met any of the ‘hounds in person, so this alone was enough to make me suck up my social anxiety and sign up.

That day, I didn’t really want to go. I was tired, and thinking, “man, I hope this doesn’t suck. Because I’m going alone, and if I don’t make any friends AND the demo sucks, I’m going to be pissed. I don’t want to sit there staring at my hands for a couple of hours.”

When I got there, at least half of the participants were already there, and I started the ever-important seat selection process. Some people are obviously there in pairs. You don’t want to sit next to those people, because they’re just going to talk to each other all night. So I found a seat in between two people who appeared to be alone, and unrelated to each other.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

“No!” says the guy on my right.

So I sit down. Guy starts chatting me up immediately.

“So, how did you hear about this?”

“On Chowhound.com…”

Guy has never heard of this. Clearly he is not one of the ‘hounds I thought I might meet.

Miscellaneous small-talk questions ensue, of the standard “what do you do” variety. For the record, the “what do you do” conversation for me always follows the following arc:

“I’m a chemist – a postdoctoral fellow at U of T.”

“So, what do you plan to do once you finish your degree?”

This is a major pet peeve of mine, but something I realize most people don’t get. POSTdoctoral fellow means I HAVE the degree. I am no longer a student. I HAVE A PH.D. I AM JUST POORLY PAID BECAUSE I CHOSE TO WORK IN ACADEMIA INSTEAD OF INDUSTRY.

So I clarify and answer as gracefully as I can. But I’m kind of over the dude in the knit cap who is a little too interested in chatting with me. I’m just here to make friends and eat some oddly-shaped food.

But the girl on the other side of me gets into the conversation when he mentions he did a stage at El Bulli (v. famous MG restaurant in Spain), and as the conversation flows it comes out that he is a cook. In a restaurant. Which one? Scaramouche.

For those who don’t live in Toronto, this is widely agreed to be one of the very top restaurants in the city. I certainly can’t afford to eat there.

The demo finally gets going, but first we have to sit through a local historian telling us about the history of the Market and the city itself. This is how his spiel starts:

“Before we get started, I’m going to tell you a little bit about the history of this area. I promise, it’s only going to be 15 minutes…

…20,000 years ago, during the last Ice Age…”

I shit you not.

So about 20 minutes later, I lean over and mutter to the girl on my left, “I think it’s been more than 15 minutes.”

Later in the night, she said THAT’S when she knew I was cool.

As the evening wore on, the three of us cracked a lot of jokes under our breath and competed at giving each other the giggles. For God’s sake, the damned thing dragged on for 3 1/2 hours. The instructor was a neat guy, but so poorly organized, and we had to find other ways to amuse ourselves. Chef guy fed me flavored sea salts that I could just as easily have fed myself. We discussed olive oils and roasted red peppers. About the 2 1/2 hour mark, we looked around and realized that we were the only people still having fun. Once the guy gave us the “gin fizz – hot and cold” we were goners. We snuck extras of anything alcoholic. The guy running the demo clearly thought we were the cool kids in the class, but couldn’t join in because he had to work. Chef guy actually left to try to make it to the LCBO before it closed. He came back empty-handed. We all commented that we should go out for drinks after.

So we did.

Drinks led to the idea that we should all go for karaoke. And somehow we wound up going to Chef guy’s house instead. We hung out into the wee hours of the morning, drinking wine and listening to music. Chef guy fed me basil leaves off of the plant on his deck. He started showing off the ramps and mushrooms in his fridge, and then just started cooking with them. He started sauteeing veggies, then thought, “man, you know what I wish I had right now? Some salmon.” Then realized he had some (really freaking good) salmon leftover in his fridge from a sushi party the previous weekend. A pan of stir-fry appears in the living room, loaded with veggies and whole cloves of garlic, and salmon with crispy skin.

It was ORGASMIC.

So after a long night of flirting (albeit extremely chaste) with this very young Chef, we said our goodbyes in the wee hours. Girl and I are now BFFs, as I hail her a cab and make my way to the Night Bus.

And a hell of a lot running through my head.

To be continued…

Okay, I know I haven't written in ages, and this post isn't going to do much to remedy that. But I wanted to alert all of you that I am, as of this evening, single again. Feel free to settle up those betting pools now.

However, if all goes according to plan, I won't be for long, so you might want to start arranging a new one. More details later.

Whiiiiiiiiiiiine…and Cheese.

Man, it’s been one of those days.

 

I woke up 15 minutes before my alarm.  But with that incredibly groggy - “man, I hope when I look at the clock I’ll see that I can sleep for another two hours” but then when you do you realize you CAN’T -feeling. 

 

So I reset my alarm for half an hour later.

 

And then couldn’t go back to sleep.

 

You know, one of THOSE days.

 

Had a minor existential crisis over my morning eggs and coffee.  Practical upshot: I’m not happy.  Will be better when/if I ever get a Real Job and when/if Boyfriend does same.  When I left for work, there was a torrential downpour happening outside.  My umbrella inverted in the wind about a house and a half down the street.  Yep, I’m That Girl.  Am now soaked from approximately mid-thigh down because even an uninverted umbrella can’t stop horizontal rain.

 

The bus took forever to get to my stop.  I had probably missed one en route to the stop, but couldn’t see it because my umberella(ella ella) must be kept full-on orthogonal to the ground to keep it from inverting.  Yep, one of THOSE days.

 

The train was delayed inexplicably.  Not at stations, but in the tunnel in between, which is somehow much more demoralizing.  Yep.

 

Got to work.  Realized that, for the five hundredth time in three weeks that the receipt I needed to turn in my travel reimbursement was at home when the form was at work.  Or vice versa.  This is the Law of Conservation of Paperwork.  Paperwork can neither be created nor destroyed – either the form or the supporting documentation will always be in whatever location you are not.  Yep.

 

{sigh} In order to do new experiments, I need materials.  That must be produced.  In another building.  As in, not mine.  As in, will require going Outside. 

Fuck that, yo.

Youbetcha.

 

Manage to find semi-productive things to occupy me for the rest of the day.  Feeling slightly uplifted.  Decide to reward self by procuring Single Girl Supper (tm) on way home.  (SGS(tm) consists of bread, cheese, various dips/spreads/delicious meat products, olives and/or other cold, delicious vegetable-type things.  And a bottle of wine that I may or may not finish before bedtime.  No cooking.  Maximum deliciousness.) 

I used to say that I never met a cheese I didn’t like. 
I made an acquaintance tonight that has forever rendered that statement untrue.

Jawohl.

 

You know I’m having a bad day when I DON’T EVEN LIKE CHEESE.

 

Okay, not fair.  I did very much enjoy the parmigiano reggiano and the old cheddar.  But the funk from the Cheese That Shall Remain Nameless almost ruined THOSE.  In fact, it still lingers in my kitchen/dining room, as well as (as I’m sure I’ll discover after I’ve had a couple of days to forget about it) my sinuses.  I mean, have you ever picked up a few groceries on the way home on a rainy day, and thought, “hmm…something smells…icky.  Probably my shoes, since they are made of leather and haven’t properly dried out all day.”  And gotten home and unwrapped your groceries and realized it’s coming from them?  I mean, genuinely wondered if your freshly purchased foodstuffs were medically safe to eat?  I did some quick Googling, and found that my cheese is SUPPOSED to smell “prominently of barnyard” but is, in fact, “quite delightful” so I ignore the probable biohazards and give it the old college try.  I mean, I’ve heard countless stories of cheese that smells like ass yet tastes incredible.  Maybe this is one of these?

 

Nyet.  No, it is not.  IT TASTES JUST LIKE IT SMELLS. In fact, the cheese has no discernable flavor aside from the funk.  No delightful creamy goodness.  No umami.  NADA. 

 

Seriously.  I am not kidding when I say this was Unpleasant. 

 

And I TRIED to get past it – really I did!  Maybe it’s an acquired taste!  Stinky cheeses usually are!  Maybe I can tolerate it without the rind, then work up to loving the whole putrid mess!

 

Non.  Not at all.  I do not like it, Sam I Am.

 

{sigh} So first I have failed as a functioning human being, and now I have failed as a Foodie.

 

A few glasses of wine have served to dull the pain, but like the scar on the back of my left hand, it lingers.  And, as tends to happen after a few glasses of wine, I need to go to the bathroom.  But as I go about my business, I realize that someone is in the bathroom upstairs, taking a shower. 

Surely I have mentioned the lack of adequate water pressure in my house, no?

So the question, dear friends, is: After the thoroughly irritatingly pathetic day I have had…To flush?  Or not to flush?

What would you do?

Before you answer, allow me to note that someone upstairs had left the back door open.  The one that pools cold air into my little basement hallway.  And it is 37 outside.

 

Oh yeah.  I flushed that motherfucker.

And with that, I can sleep soundly tonight.  G’nite.

Look, I get it.  Valentine's Day is coming up, and that's like Christmas for dating services.  That being said, I harbor an unspeakable level of hatred towards these people:

Seriously.  MAKE IT STOP.  Nobody cares about your fuckin' drywall dancing, and most of us "geeky chemist" types find it more offensive than endearing that you were so surprised that your beloved Joshua might actually have some sort of artistic sensibility beyond an appreciation for a really beautiful mechanism.

 

And what the fuck kind of name is Tanyalee anyway???

 

This commercial actually makes me want to break up with my boyfriend, WHO I MET ON YOUR SITE, just to prove you assholes wrong.

Shadowboxing

(This post was written on Monday, Feb. 2, just not finished until today.)

 

On my way into the subway on my way home from work today, I overheard the following conversation:

Girl: So, wait...what do you think about Jesus?

Boy: I believe he was a prophet.

Girl: Yeah, so that's where you and I differ.  I don't believe in aliens, and I don't believe in Jesus.  I mean, I believe he existed, but I don't believe...like...he walked on water.  Because if he walked on water, why aren't WE walking on water?

Boy: Um...because we're not Jesus.

 

Me (interior dialogue): What kind of circular logic is that?  "I don't believe that this guy could do something ordinary humans can't, because ordinary humans can't do what this guy did."  I mean, do you know the sound of millions of militant atheists' hands slapping their foreheads at the same time?  I have heard it, my friends, and it involved a LOT of "like, okay"s.

 

Then Girl went back to the topic of aliens, and how incredulous she was at the idea that anyone could Want to Believe...

Boy: Are you well-informed on the topic?

 

Shorly thereafter, Girl got stuck in the turnstile.

 

QED and shit.

 

So this is my way of saying that today has just been one big existential/philosophical crisis here at The Alchemist.  Yesterday, I went about my normal Sunday chores.  This week, they involved stripping my bed in order to wash my sheets (Sunday morning is my allotted laundry time at Chez Wahooty) and making various accoutrements pour le Boule du Super.  (And no, I don't parlez le francais, but I DO know that "boule" means bread, not bowl.  But I will have you know that I was making some super beer bread, among other things, so SUCK ON IT, you hosers.  See what I did there? I am a cheeky bilingual monkey.)  But since nothing ever seems to go as planned in le Monde du Wahooty, the washer and dryer were otherwise occupied/disabled.  And, while I have no problem sleeping on dirty sheets, there is just something so fundamentally WRONG about stripping the bed...and PUTTING THE DIRTY SHEETS BACK ON.  I think there's a very profound metaphor for my life somewhere in there, but it hasn't poked its little nose out to see its shadow yet (see what I did there?).  At any rate, I didn't have to deal with it immediately, as my plans for the rest of the day were comprised of heading over to The Boy's friend's house to watch the Super Bowl with The Only Canadian I Know Who Likes Football (tm).  And The Boy, but he was coming back from playing Army all weekend, so he just snored on the couch the whole time.  And TOCIKWLF(tm) just happens to have clean sheets.  And lots and lots of loaded questions about The Boy and our Future together.  This is one of my fundamental problems with dating The Boy.  He is, for the most part, great, and wonderful, and treating me like, okay, the queen and shit.  But, in his words, "I think my friends like [okay] you more than they like [okay] me."  Which means his friends are quite possibly more invested in our future together than either him or I are.  We are taking things slowly and sensibly like grownups, while they have us playground married already.  "Playground married" is a term that I made up while talking to MadMup tonight to describe that state where everyone keeps telling you that you're in love and going to get married and have babies while you sit there blinking and wondering what the hell is going on.  So I get to work today, having started my day with a screaming tension headache (instead of a good, honest screaming hangover like most sensible football fans), and take a moment to look at job listings again.  And every time I click on a listing, my thought process isn't just, "would I want to move there?  Do I want to do that job?" but rather, "would I want to move there?  Do I want to do that job?  Would he want to move there?  Would he find a job that he wants to do there?  What if he proposes before I move?  What if I take him with me and then he proposes and I end up saying no?"

 

And this is approximately the point where I start breathing heavily into a paper bag.

 

I am having a hard enough time making a major life decision for myself, without it being weighed down with the added dimension of "Do I want to take Him with me?"

I am being literal here.  I can feel the pressure on my chest when the question drifts into my mind.  And no, that's not just The Boy feeling me up.  This walking on water shit is hard enough without someone else riding piggyback.

That's two, TWO! major life decisions for the price of one!  How much would YOU pay for this potentially marital dilemma???

 

Far too steep for a Monday morning, my friend.  So I sign up to interview at a conference I'm going to in March (pro-active, yet not committing to applying to any one particular job, so it's safe) and, just for shits and giggles, peruse the US government job listings.  And realize that the one thing that all of the jobs I am not over-qualified to do have in common is... I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO DO THEM.  So I post a panicky (yet humorous) Facebook status and try to redirect my focus to my current job. 

 

 

Which worked pretty well for the rest of the day.

 

But have you ever had one of those days where all kinds of emotions just seem determined to hurtle at you from every direction, your mood swings so quick that you can't even identify them before they've swung in another direction? 

When I had lunch at 3, I ate leftover chili and browsed the paper. 

My horoscope made me cry.

"A complicated and tortuous ordeal has caused you to dwell on your shortcomings.  Even when you think you're at your worst, you are truly exceptional."

Thanks, Cosmos.  I needed that.

For some reason, the Cosmos seems to know when you're having one of these days, and all sorts of random people that you haven't talked to in ages come out of the woodwork...wanting to chat...further muddying your thought processes with long-forgotten memories and relationships.

 

I get through the afternoon, and a ride home with TOCIKWILF(tm) that only confirms that my concerns/reservations regarding The Boy are not, in fact, all in my head, or even unique to me.  I settle in for a quiet evening at home.  But while I'm fixing my dinner, an old friend from high school IMs me, asking about my blog and bringing up old memories of favorite teachers and gets me thinking about exactly how much I've changed over the last 15 years. 

He summed it up quite succinctly: "I know how you're different from high school. You're fun now."

My words exactly.

Then Em IMs me about Heroes. [Like] Okay, VERY welcome inane conversation.

Then I fiddle with my Facebook status again, and give myself a severe case of the giggles:

 

Then, MadMup IMs me for the first time in, like [okay] a year or so.  And we talk about all kinds of things pertaining to friendship, and relationships, and pretty much rehash everything that has been going through my mind for the last 24 hours in about 15 minutes.  Another conversational equivalent of a kitten batting around a milk ring - no big life issues are resolved (or are likely ever going to be), but at least I'm feeling actively engaged by the process.

 

And then I watched The City.

(And The Aftershow.)

Shut up.

 

And now I'm sitting here, trying to process everything, positive AND negative, that has so unexpectedly bubbled up to the surface over the last few hours.

 

And my dirty sheets are still in a heap with my naked pillows. 

Time to make my filthy bed... and lie in it.