On Being 30 & Saying No.

There are some books that you read at the perfect time in your life.

This is the case with Julie Klausner‘s book “I Don’t Care about your Band: what I learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux Sensitive Hipsters and other Guys I’ve Dated“. Klausner wrote the book right before her 30th birthday as a humorous ode to the romantic collateral damage of her twenties. The book spoke to me because at the time I was also on the cusp of my 30th birthday and like Klausner, I’m also in the process of trying to make sense of everything that happened in my twenties and pull out whatever wisdom I can from the wreckage.

Klausner compares Kermit the Frog to the modern hipster guy (“Kermit the Frog is a terrible boyfriend”) and tells the story of dating “Douche Ziggy” a self-deprecating weirdo with a penchant for crazy sex. Although the details are slightly different, some of Klausner’s dating experiences are so close to my own that it almost feels like I could have written this book. Her stories are so witty & hilarious & achingly heartbreaking that I WISH I could say that I wrote this book. However, the chapter that resonated with me the most wasn’t really about dating at all – it was the final chapter of the book that describes Klausner’s first New Year’s Eve as a 30 year old.

I wrote quite a bit about all the stuff I wanted to do before my 30th birthday and what I did to celebrate but, I haven’t written anything about what it feels like to be on the other side of my twenties. Just like how sometimes you find the perfect book at the perfect moment, sometimes someone else is able to put into words what you haven’t been able to. This passage from the book perfectly describes how being 30 feels to me:

I remember walking to the lip of the building to better see the skyline of sweet, wide Manhattan and thinking about how good it felt to exist in a negative space. I know what I was not……I thought about how lucky I was to be different from how I was before. How I used to mistake “yes” for “yay!” and the pursuit of knowledge for the possession of it. I thought about how trivial people used to be better company to me than solitude and how I’d finally earned the ability to shut out clutter-at least occasionally – and to leave self-sabotage to the kids who can’t enjoy being alone now and then”.

In my twenties I said “Yes” to so many things. At 20, I was a young woman (girl) on her own for the first time in a city that at the time felt enormous. Everything was a new experience. I was so eager to soak up all the shiny newness around me that I often mistook “NEW” for “WORTHWHILE”. I just kept saying YES, YES, YES, unwilling to believe that the fire I was playing with was hot until I reached my hand in and felt the burn.

Go to a party at an abandoned warehouse at 4am
. YES!

Take off to Miami to party for a week with a guy you barely know. YES!

Go to a bar that smells like beer pee and stand around in uncomfortable shoes watching a band that sucks. YES!

Self-Medicate. Put lots of bad chemicals in your body. YES!

Do these things because it feels better than being alone on a Saturday night. YES!

Date someone who’s your complete opposite or totally inappropriate just for the novelty factor. YES!

Practice emotional cliff diving. Settle for half-baked relationships. Be the side-chick, the mistress, the friend with benefits. Sleep with your exes. Date guys with homes that look like the set of the latest Seth Rogan movie. Do all these things even though you know you want more. YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES!

In the early point in my twenties I feel like I just let life happen to me. I said “yes” to so many things that at times I felt like I was Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole towards whatever new self-created chaos awaited me.

Eventually I learned that being alone felt so much better than having to deal with the fall-out of my bad choices. Somewhere in the later half of my twenties, it became so much easier to just say “NO” to situations that didn’t make me feel good.

Being 30 is about saying “NO” to all of that stuff that just no longer makes any sense.

Being 30 is about packing light. It’s about recognizing which people and things you should include in your life and which you shouldn’t. It’s about knowing what is a worthwhile use of your time. It’s about recognizing that if an opportunity seems less than awesome…its probably because it is. It’s about knowing when its OK to just say “NO” because you’ve lived enough to know there will be other opportunities that are more worthwhile if you are patient.

Being 30 is about saying “NO” to beating yourself up over all of your transgressions in your twenties. For a long time I let myself feel bad about a lot of the less than stellar choices I made when I was younger. But, life goes on. You can’t change the past. If I hadn’t done some of this crazy stuff or made mistakes I did, I probably wouldn’t have much to write about and this blog would probably be pretty boring.

Being 30 is about “owning it” – acknowledging your experiences for what they are and sharing them with others. It’s about saying “This is me…and I am OK with me”

(If you want to read a really good post about “owning it” I suggest you read this post by one of my favorite bloggers)

Being 30 is also about saying “YES” to the right things. Saying “yes” to working hard at the things you are passionate about. Saying “yes” to spending time with people who you love and who inspire you to be the best version possible of you.

Whether you’re planning an all-night dance party with friends, or booking a trip to Vegas to party with 99 people you’ve never met, Being 30 is about saying YES to having fun, 100% on your own terms.

Being 30 is about being able to say without any hesitation or regret, “I’m not putting on those uncomfortable shoes and going to that bar. I’m going to stay home and write because you know what? I don’t care about your band

I don’t know if feeling any of this stuff is exclusive to “turning thirty”. I think all of you have/will come to similar conclusions at different points in your life. For me, 30 has been the age where I have felt these emotions the strongest.

What do you guys think? Has there been a certain period of your life where you felt different that you were before? Is that time now?

Making Sex Make Sense

A few months ago, a good friend of mine & I were at a bar having a drink. As usual, our conversation eventually wandered over to the topic of Sex:

“It took me a while to really understand Sex. I was having sex but I didn’t really GET sex. I had to sleep with a few different people before I really started to enjoy myself”

I can’t remember who actually said this (many martinis were involved at this point), just that we both AGREED.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be one of those people who has sex for the first time with their soul-mate. They end up having amazing chemistry with this person & they fall in love & stay together & never look back as they walk off into the sunset towards a life together filled with love & orgasms & interesting conversations. Cue movie credits.

Obviously, I’m not one of these people (If I was, this blog wouldn’t exist)

I always knew that SOMEDAY I would have amazing, mind blowing sex. It just didn’t happen for me right away. My experiences with relationships and sex have involved A LOT of trial and error.

Because I’m in the mood to do some over-sharing today, lets take a look at the evidence:

Guy #1: I won’t tell you the full-story of how I cashed in my V-Card. Instead, here is the Coles Notes version: It happened with my first real boyfriend in High School. The experience was sweet & loving but also awkward, bumbling and most of all painful. I felt like my insides were being pried open by the jaws of life. Luckily though, it only lasted about 60 seconds. After it was over, I remember staring at the ceiling thinking:

“So, THIS is what I have been waiting for?”

(honestly, I would love to meet a woman who’s first time was a mind-blowing, awesome, multiple- orgasm filled romp. Maybe that’s an oxymoron?)

Guy #2: This is the guy I started dating near the end of high school. I was really into him. We spent most of the summer after Grade 12, lying on his bed, fooling around. There was a lot of kissing, touching and…orgasms. And as you probably guessed, the orgasms turned me into a bit of a dum dum…enough to overlook stuff like how we had nothing in common (besides enjoying making out with each other) and that he had a speech impediment that made words like “sailboat” come out sounding like “twailboat” (oh the things you don’t notice when you’re permanently lip-locked). Despite all the fooling around, I made him wait 4 months to actually sleep with me. When the special night arrived, he climbed on top of me, pounded away like a rabid jackrabbit and passed out 3 minutes later (HUH?). My thoughts at that moment were:

“I waited 4 months for this?!”

Guy #3. He was older, devastatingly handsome, and much more experienced than I was. Thanks to this guy, I discovered that sexual positions OTHER than missionary weren’t just stuff from the pages of Cosmopolitan magazine, but stuff people actually did in real life. WHO KNEW. We ended up having sex in many new & exciting ways in many new & exciting places (we both lived at home, so actually having sex in a bed was usually off limits). Our little adventures were thrilling but, most of the time I didn’t really come. Sure there would be flutters of pleasure & those little blips of orgasms, but never anything like the earth-moving-mind-altering-OMG-I-found-the-BIG-O-all-consuming-waves-of-pleasure that I had heard existed (also thanks to Cosmopolitan). Partly, I think this is because I was so enamored with this guy that the following soundtrack would always be playing in my head whenever we were having sex: OMG, I LIKE HIM SO MUCH AND HE’S SO HOT AND I CAN’T BELIEVE WERE ACTUALLY DOING THIS TOGETHER OMG HE CHOSE ME TO DO THIS WITH AM I DOING THIS RIGHT? WHY ISN’T HE MAKING EYE CONTACT? I distracted myself to the point where it was like my body forgot to come. The other part of this was that he never tried to please me. He was a selfish lover. I realized this many years later when I slept with him again as an adult.

Guy #4. FINALLY GOOD SEX. With this guy, the emotional & the physical finally connected and there were orgasms… pretty good ones. The only problem was that I was dating a closet case. Even though the sex was actually pretty good, getting him bed was a struggle. We’d only have sex once every three weeks if I was lucky. Which, as you know is not enough-especially when you’ve just started dating. Most of the time I was left feeling like a cat in heat, scratching my nails on the wall of my poorly lit basement apartment. When I expressed my concerns, his response was:

“I’m OK with you sleeping with other people if you want”

(Not exactly what you want to hear from the guy you’re supposedly in love with)

What this really means is “I want to sleep with other people, but I just don’t have the balls to tell you this”.

Eventually, I did take his advice & slept with someone else (As did he: the cute guy in his acting class)


Guys #5-#7 were a motley crew of individuals that included a guy I’ll call “THE BITER”, a cute French Canadian (more jackrabbit action) and a guy who wanted to try out “moves” he’d learned from an “instructional porn video”. This didn’t go over well. To borrow a line from Seinfeld, “it felt like I was being probed by aliens”


Which brings us to Guy #8. Have you ever met someone that you have been, instantly, insanely, attracted to? Yeah, that’s #8. We met on the eve of my 21st birthday at a bar I used to go to. One minute we’re dancing together, the next we’re pressed up against the packed bar, making out passionately, his hands reaching up under my skirt.

him: “Can I take you home?”
me: “I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t do those kinds of things”
him: “Ok, well do you want to come outside and have a cigarette with me?”

So, I followed him outside into the alley adjacent to the bar. He never ended up smoking the cigarette. Instead, the kissing continued. Then he kneels down, pulls my underwear down & begins going down on me, while my back is pressed up on the graffitied wall of the alleyway. Barely Concealed by the darkness from the passers by on Queen St: ORGASM. It was totally sleazy & inappropriate & hot.

him: “Can I take you home now?”
me: “No. How about this: I’ll take YOU home. My turf. My rules. And I’m NOT sleeping with you”

We spent the next four hours in my bed, mostly with his heads between my legs.

I counted the orgasms 6….7….8……….9

(where did he learn to do this?!)

When the clock struck 6 am, he resurfaced for air. Out of breath & exhausted I said to him:


We finally had sex. We came together as the sun rose over Toronto.

I was THAT KIND OF GIRL after all.



The year I spent trying to date Mr. Magic Tongue, was a total disaster. Outside of the bedroom, he was completely wrong for me. I just didn’t see it. The Sex had turned me into Blind Dum Dum in love. But, that’s beside the point. What’s important to understand about this experience is that it changed me. I became confident in bed, I learned to express myself and ask for what I wanted & finally I understood what it was like to be consumed in that I -need- to-have- you- I- don’t -care- if- we’re -in- an-alleyway- or- on -top -of- a -washing- machine- we -need- to- have- sex -right- now -kind -of passion. Take THAT Cosmopolitan magazine!

Years later, I slept with Guy #3 again. I remember he was on-top of me, doing what I like to call “slow-mo jackrabbit action” aka “barely moving” . Frustrated, grabbed his ass & called out:


His eyes nearly popped out of his head, he looked at me and said,

“You’ve CHANGED”
“Yeah, I’m no longer 18”

I had changed. Although #3 didn’t fully appreciate this, I’m sure the guys who came after him (no pun intended) did. The transformation into the sex-blogging-lingerie-loving-self-proclaimed-brazen-hussy I am today was already on its way.

By the time I got to Guy #13… Well, I won’t tell you what happened there YET, but I’m pretty sure we broke a few laws the first time we hooked up.

The rest is history.

All these stories come full circle back to a conversation I had recently with another friend. She said to me:

“I feel kind of embarrassed about the number of people I’ve slept with”

I used to feel the same way too. I used to beat myself up about it. Call myself a slut. But, as I’ve realized, negative self talk gets you nowhere. Somewhere around the time when I moved in with my boyfriend, I decided to say FUCK IT and decided that my “number” no longer mattered. Looking back on the past, I realize that my “number” (which I’ll never reveal but I can say doesn’t stop at 13) matters less and less. As long as you’re taking care of yourself, respecting yourself & the people around you what’s the big deal? What’s the point of constraining your own sexuality because you feel like you need to fit in with some arbitrary definition of what’s a socially acceptable number of people to have slept with? Because you know what? That number doesn’t exist. Why make yourself feel bad? If I had decided to stop sleeping with people at Guy #3, or #5 or worse #7 (that video he watched should really be banned. for reals) because I was afraid of being labeled a “slut” and instead thought I should just “wait for the right person”, then I would have missed out on a lot of the experiences that have made me who I am today. The irony of this all was that I WAS “waiting for the right person”. He just didn’t come along for a very, very long time.

If you’re still waiting, or trying to make sense of it all: don’t worry. Sometimes it takes a long time to get things right. It did for me. Take a deep breath. Re-Group. Hug yourself. It will all work out. And in the mean time, don’t be afraid to embrace your inner Brazen Hussy. She’s a lot of fun.

{Today’s photo is from We Heart It. And no, I don’t condone wearing socks in bed. ever.}

Can anyone else relate to this?

Ex-Boyfriend Letter #2

Dear ______,


There I said it. I probably should have told you that 10 years ago when I broke up with you but I didn’t. I’m sure by now someone has told you this. Or some other girl you’ve dated has tried to stage an intervention. Or you’ve figured it out on your own (I hope).

It feels a bit weird writing you a letter because I often wonder if you’d even remember me, like if we happened to run into each other on the street…or in the liquor store. If you need a bit of a refresher, here it is: I met you the summer of 2000 at a cheesy bar in my hometown. I was home for the summer, after my first school year in Toronto and was on the rebound from a bad relationship. I was out with my friend that night, soaking my troubles in whatever neon colored-tropical flavored-vodka infused bitch pop I was drinking that week. When I saw you, my first thought was that you were precisely the kind of guy I NEVER date. You looked like the stereotypical West Coast surfer dude (a look that seems to overpopulate my hometown): Yellowy bleach blond spiky hair, deep tan, Hawaiian shirt, pucca shell necklace. You also had these piercing ice blue eyes. When you looked at me with those eyes, I forgave the Hawaiian shirt. You were hot, in a “could be mistaken for a member of a late 90’s boy band” kind of way. I’ve always abhorred boy bands. So, the idea of dating you seemed kinky and exotic like dating the enemy. You also drove a truck, sold car parts for a living and enjoyed Bryan Adams. We had absolutely nothing in common. You were 25. I was 19. I decided that you would make the perfect summer fling.

A few nights later we went out on our first date. After a movie and some margaritas, we ended up back at your apartment. Once inside your place, you dimmed the lights, lit candles all over the apartment and spread a blanket on the floor of your living room. Sitting on the blanket together, you poured us two glasses of wine. After a few sips of wine we were making out on the blanket. When we started peeling off each others clothes, you paused, looked at me & my ivory colored skin and dark curly hair and said “Wow, I’ve never seen a girl without a suntan. You’re beautiful. Like a painting from the Renaissance. Like the Venus de Milo“. Then you said the words that every girl wants to hear “You deserve to be worshiped” (How do you say no to that?!). And that’s exactly what you did: you started at my feet, massaging them, sucking on each of my toes, kissing my ankles, allowing your tongue to travel up my calf…no body part was neglected that night as you worked your way back up to my lips to kiss me (much, much later). We never slept together that night but, I remember my back arching in pleasure as I came. hard. many times. on your living room floor. It was totally hot. It was exactly what my body needed. In the morning, I crept home with shaky legs on a multiple orgasm high.

Everything went downhill from there.

That many orgasms in one night can turn you into a bit of a dum-dum. I had a serious case of sexually transmitted stupidity. This explains dates #2-#5.

Date #2. A few days later I went back to your apartment. Everything looked different in the light of day, without the distraction of the margaritas, the candles, THE WINE, or your head between my legs. How did I not notice that your curtains were made of fabric printed with a Marijuana Leaf motif? Or the giant Marijuana Leaf FLAG on the living room wall? Or the creepy terrarium with the Lizard inside? Or the Star Wars paraphernalia? And how did I not notice the giant BONG on your coffee table? Or the other half dozen bongs all over the living room? Was this really the apartment of the guy I had shared Chardonnay and a candle-light pic-nic with just a few nights before?! When you caught me staring at the bong, you asked “Wanna take a hit off of my Old Lady?” (huh?). I politely declined. Despite growing up on the West Coast weed has never been my thing. You replied “Suit yourself! Don’t mind if I do!”. Then you dove face down into the bong. I sat on the couch, drinking the beer you had handed me (after mentioning you’d already had 6) and watched you orally pleasure your “Old Lady”. I would have preferred if you had been orally pleasuring me. But, like I said before I was 19 and a bit of a dum-dum. At this moment I was really turned off by you but then I thought of the orgasms (orgasms? bong? orgasms? bong?) and said to myself the thing that all 19 year-olds making bad dating choices say “I’m just going to see where this goes“. I dove down and took a hit off of the “Old Lady” and hoped for the best.

Date #3. I barely remember this date. What I do remember is that it involved another cheesy bar in my hometown, lots of Red Bull and an OBSCENE amount of Tequila. One moment we’re jumping around to Basement Jaxx, the next I’m outside in a parking lot watching you puke behind a parked car. At the time I thought “This is gross!” but the joke was on me. As soon as I got home, I was more sick than I have ever been in my life. ALL NIGHT. Scary sick. TMI: I threw up and threw up until I was just throwing up stomach acid and blood. I started to cry. My Mom completely freaked out (rightfully so) and got on the phone to the doctor’s office. She was convinced that I had an ulcer and a ‘very low alcohol tolerance’. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her daughter had a bit of a substance abuse problem of her own.

To say I was slightly “troubled” at 19 would be putting it mildly. A lot of bad stuff had happened during my first semester of college. Traumatic stuff. Rather than really face what I was going through, I figured the best thing to do was to have as much fun as possible ALL THE TIME. I was all about “self-medicating”. When I would drink, I wouldn’t just have a few. I would drink to the point of oblivion where everything I felt didn’t matter anymore. Comfortably numb was my preferred state of being. I tried to explain this to you a few times but then realized that I couldn’t. I didn’t trust you enough to tell you about the things that had happened and why I was drinking in the first place. I couldn’t even admit these things to my best friends.

When I told you about throwing up blood you said,

“That happens to me all the time”


As messed up as I was, I knew that being around you wasn’t good for me. But, instead of walking away at that point (hey, remember those orgasms?!) I told myself two other lies that 19-year old dum-dums making bad decisions tell themselves:

Just because HE’S drinking, doesn’t mean I have to. Besides, maybe I can help him

Which brings us to date #4. I decided that I would plan a “sober” date for us (after date #3 I couldn’t even look at a bottle of liquor without feeling nauseous). I was house sitting for my Dad and decided to have all of my girlfriends over for dinner…and invite YOU to meet EVERYONE! You showed up bleary eyed, stumbling, WASTED, with a six pack. You proceeded to sit down in front of my Dad’s TV and drink six more beers. When my girlfriends went home, I suggested that maybe you should lie down for a bit and “sleep it off”. I went to go get something from the bathroom, when I came back into the room you had taken off all of your clothes and you were standing in the middle of the room STARK NAKED.


At which point, you ran out of the room and puked in my Dad’s toilet.

As far as Summer Flings go, I was kind of hoping mine would be more along the lines of “Dirty Dancing” or “Blue Lagoon” (naked teens on a deserted island!). Instead, my summer romance had turned into “Leaving Las Vegas”.

When the amount of puke in a relationship outnumbers the amount of orgasms, that’s when you know its OVER….which totally doesn’t explain why there was a date#5.

For date #5, you asked me to the movies. Barring you managing to smuggle in a flask in the pocket of your Hawaiian shirt, I figured the movies were probably “safe”. When we arrived to the theater and you suggested we “Grab a Drink before the show”I knew it was now or never. I HAD to break-up with you. So, while we sat at the bar across the street from the movie theater, you nursing a Pint and me a tiny cup of coffee, I told you it was over. I wish I had told you the truth, that your drinking really bothered me. That I thought you needed help. But, I didn’t. I barely knew you. I don’t think I could have saved you. Not, when I needed saving myself. Instead I came up with some other bullshit reason for why I was breaking up with you: “Its not you…It’s me”

The fact of the matter was, it totally was you.

We never spoke after that night. A few months later, my best friend and I were driving through town. I looked out my window and saw you in the car next to us. Your head was hanging out of the passenger seat window. The only time I have ever leaned out of a car window like that is when I’ve had so much to drink that I am about to spill my guts. It was 2pm in the afternoon. I knew at that moment I had made the right decision.

You were a nice guy. A good-looking guy. A really good toe-sucker. We both needed help. I hope you’ve found that help. I hope you’re happy and in a good place now.



What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?

Ex-Boyfriend Letter #1

Dear ________ ,

Originally I wasn’t going to write you a letter because our break-up was pretty cut and dry. You were too old for me. We were both at different points in our lives. When we broke up, we shook hands as friends and never spoke again. But here is what I should have said to you when I had the chance:


They’re pretentious. They’re elitist. They are total ASS-HATS.

Hanging out with them while we were dating was honestly one of the most painful experiences of my life. Don’t believe me? Let me refresh your memory. Here are a few things that happened while we were dating that convinced me your friends were douche-bags:

1. The Ikea incident: While we were dating I had to move apartments. Your best friend kindly volunteered to help me move. While you guys were moving you managed to break the legs off of my Ikea computer desk. When this happened, you and your friend started laughing.

Me: “You guys just broke my desk”
Your friend: “It was a crappy desk anyways. I think I just did you a favor. What is this.. Ikea?”
Me: “Yeah thanks. Now my desk has no legs”
Your friend: “You should really spend the money and buy better stuff Simone. Ikea is for low income people”

I really wanted to yell at your friend and say: I just graduated university and have 30K worth of debt. I AM LOW INCOME. And you just amputated my desk. ASSHOLE.

But I didn’t. I swallowed my feelings while you stood by idly, laughing with your friend as he made fun of my stuff. I should have broken up with you then.

2. The Wife: Your best friend’s wife is a total SHE-DOUCHE. I just had to put it out there. She’s one of the most controlling, competitive people I have ever met. I tried to be friends with her but it stopped being fun when I realized she tried to control every. single. social. situation. The worst was when we’d hang out with both of them and she’d pick these crazy fights with your best friend. They’d be swapping passive aggressive comments across the dinner table while we were held hostage, listening to this crap. It was seriously stuff right off of the pages of “Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Wolf”. If I wanted to watch that, I’d rent the DVD. At least then I’d be allowed popcorn. The worst fight was definitely the one that took place at the Mexican restaurant. Between your friends embarrassing comments about how much they loved “ethnic food” and their public display of relationship problems, the staff was totally staring at our table. I just wanted to grab one of the oversize sombreros off of the wall so I could hide under it until this whole mess was over.

I know you found these fights totally awkward and inappropriate. But you never did or said anything.

The day I completely wrote your friend’s wife off as a SHE-DOUCHE was the night I showed up at your birthday toting my vintage Louis Vuitton bag. I had recently got my first “real job” and just felt like dressing up that night. As soon as she noticed the bag she was suddenly nicer to me than she had ever been. She pulled me aside and said condescendingly “Oh, Simone. Isn’t it nice to finally be able to buy nice things for yourself?“. Then, she held up her $700 pocket book and said “Welcome to the Club!“.

What I really should have said to her was this: The purse is three years old. I bought it with my own money (vintage). And despite being a CHARITY CASE in your eyes, I DO have nice things. I just don’t wear my nice things around you because frankly, you’re not worth it. And unlike you, I don’t need to rub these things in other people’s faces because my whole sense of worth isn’t built around what kind of monogram is on my purse. I actually feel really bad for you that this is how you see yourself and the world. Whatever “Club” you think you belong to, I’m not interested in joining.

3. The Hitler incident: This is what convinced me once and for all that your best friend was an asshole. We were driving through a “low income” area of Toronto that is known for its high density housing projects and large immigrant population. Your friend says,

“This neighborhood is disgusting. It doesn’t even deserve to exist”
Me: “I have friends who grew up around here”
Him: “Well, its disgusting. The city should just bulldoze the whole area”
Me: “Umm, I don’t think the residents would be too happy about that”
Him: “I would just round everyone up, put them on buses and ship them off to farms in the country. Maybe they’d learn how to become productive members of society”
Me: “Oh you mean sort of like how Hitler rounded up the Jews and sent them off somewhere?”


Your friend stared DAGGERS into my eyes. I’m pretty sure at that moment he hated me. And I hated him. That was also the moment I lost respect for you for not standing up against your friend’s obviously fucked up values.

You became an asshole by association.

4. The Trapeze: You and your best friend were really into Kite Surfing. My new boyfriend says that this “sport” is retarded and for pussies. I have to agree with him here. Because of your obsession with Kite surfing I will never, EVER date another guy who plays a sport that can have the prefix “XTREME” placed in front of it. I hated Kite Surfing because it totally monopolized our time together. One Friday night we went over to your friend’s house because he had set up a Trapeze swing in his loft that apparently simulated the “aerial movement” (?) of being on an actual board. I sat on the sofa, watching two 35 year old guys swing from one end of your friend’s loft to the other, like overgrown monkeys. Eventually I got so bored that I fell asleep sitting up. When I woke up, I looked at my phone and saw that 3 hours had passed. I don’t think you had even noticed that I was unconscious. I realized at this point that there wasn’t room for me in this bro-mance.

I never understood why you liked hanging out with these people so much. I always thought you were “different”. I thought you were better than all this. But, it can’t be denied that the people you choose to surround yourself with ARE a reflection on who you are and your values. You CHOSE to be these people’s friends. Looking back on you and me, I can now see how much of your friends values were your own.

I don’t think you really liked me for who I was. Not really.

There were many, many times where you criticized the way I dressed and the things I liked. You called them “tacky”. You thought I was too bright. Too glittery. My personality too brash. My hair too curly. My earrings too big. Around you, I toned down so much of myself just so that you and your friends wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I straightened my hair. I listened to my Roots CD in private (because you thought my music taste sucked.) I tried to become the white-washed-WASP-y-white-cotton-pantie-wearing-GAP-commercial-girl that you wanted. But it didn’t work. Because that’s not who I am. I will never be white cotton panties. I will always be leather and lace and garters and bright colors. And as much as YOU hated it I love animal print (in moderation.) I have Eastern European roots-wearing animal print is like my fucking birth-right.Deal with it. I love music with bass and dancing around the living room to Craig Mack with the volume cranked. Your comments hurt my feelings because when I met you, I was happy with who I was ( I still am). It was you who didn’t like who I was.

Honestly, I think you only stayed with me because you thought I was hot and liked fucking me. When I stopped wanting to fuck you, I think we both just decided to cut our losses.

But that’s OK. Water under the bridge. In the end we both wanted people that neither of us were. You wanted a girl that would stroke your ego. I wanted a guy who stood up for what he believed in. Neither of us got what we wanted from each other.

And I hated your friends.

That pretty much sums it up.


Skinny Dip

What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?

The People We Date in our 20’s (part 1)

This blogger is one tired monkey. Between work, socializing, working on Tiny Ocean and staying up late every night working on a fun new project for this blog…I’m pretty beat. Today is my day off from both of my jobs. This morning I got up with intention of dyeing my roots & then sitting down for a few hours to write like a mad woman. My hair got done but instead of blogging this afternoon, I took a (much deserved) afternoon nap. Now I have some coffee & I am ready to go.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what to write about for my next dating column. Last night my friend Melissa came over. After dinner we were sitting out on my balcony drinking wine, smoking and brainstorming. She suggested that maybe I should write about the different “types” of guys you date in your 20’s. This prompted me to rattle this list off to her:

(A few “types” I’ve dated in my 20’s)

1. The consistently inconsistent, reliably unreliable guy: You’re never sure if he’s going to call or show up. And if he does show up, you’re not sure whether he’ll be sober. But you love him anyways because you’re addicted to the drama. Haven’t we all dated this guy?

2. The Lost Boy: I feel like this guy (along with #1) is a quintessential part of the 20-something dating scene. His favorite book is Siddhartha and he’s always talking in vague terms about “higher levels”, “expanding consciousness” and “the meaning of life”. Typical break-up lines include “I just really need to find myself” “I’m just too messed up right now”. Sound familiar? Move on ladies. There is no room for you in this guy’s existential crisis. Trust me.

3. Mr. “I’m Just Not into Titles”: You spend all your time together. He’s banging you. Yet, he still refuses to call you his girlfriend. His excuse is that he “doesn’t believe in TITLES because they’re old fashioned” and he suggests that you should “embrace modernity with him”. This guy just wants to have his cake and eat it without taking responsibility for his actions. If he wanted you to be his girlfriend, he’d say it. It’s really not that difficult. Walk Away.

4. Closet Cases & Bisexuals . For a few years I definitely had the “Oops, my boyfriend is Gay” curse. If you’ve read THE LIST you’ve probably guessed this. There is nothing like having a relationship end when your boyfriend admits to you he just made out with his (male) dentist. True story. Move on. Its not your fault you don’t have a penis.

5. Old Dudes. In my early 20’s I found older guys irresistible. Daddy issues? Perhaps. Older guys lost their appeal when I realized the reason they were dating me was because women their own age didn’t want them. NEXT!

6. The Coke-head: I feel like everyone in Toronto in the early 2000’s was drinking life up through their nose. Am I wrong here? Along with my “gay curse” I also had the “Oops, my boyfriend is hooked on drugs curse”. Having your date interrupted yet again by your boyfriend’s chronic nose bleeds is just well…gross.

7. Guys who get off on having a token white girl friend. No one likes being treated like someone’s exotic flavor of the month. Nor is it fun to be constantly reminded that you are “white” and that you “just don’t understand what its like to be a Black (or Asian or Mixed Race) man in Canada” (although I will try my best to understand…how could I?! I’m a white woman). One minute I’m your arm candy, the next I’m your emotional punching bag/scapegoat for your complicated identity issues. If you honestly feel this way, you shouldn’t be dating someone who looks like me. Been there. Done that. A few too many times.

8. Alcoholics Life is all one big party… until one night he gets belligerent, gets you kicked out a family restaurant and pukes in your friend’s car. True Story folks.

9. The Secret Life Guy: Once you’ve been dating for a while you discover he has a secret wife, girl friend, or baby mama on the side. Or in the case of #2: a secret gay crush on their dentist. This guy’s favorite line is “My wife/girlfriend/baby-mama just doesn’t understand me“. They never do.

10. The Spaceman: This guy’s favorite line is “I just need space“. What does that mean exactly? Have you ever dated someone and felt like if you added anymore “space” into the relationship you wouldn’t even be dating them anymore? Yeah, that’s the whole point. Any time I’ve requested “space” its been because I think the other person is nice but, for whatever reason I’m just not into them enough (usually because they’re clingy or needy). Instead I request “space”, keep them on the back burner (because I enjoy sometimes fooling around with them & the fancy dinners/nights out/gifts) and hope they eventually get the message. I’m sure the Spacemen out there are thinking the same thing.

After I finished reciting my list, I looked at Melissa and said:

“Hmm, that’s funny…”
her: “What?”
me: “I actually dated a guy who was ALL of those things
her: “Only in your life would that happen…or on a TV show”
me: “I need my own TV show”
her: “Blog about it!!”

And I will blog about it all. It’s all coming soon.

Talking to Melissa, I was reminded that my dating experiences have been slightly…out of the ordinary. There are a lot of stories that still need to be told. I feel like up until now Skinny Dip has only grazed the surface. So, over the next few weeks I’m going to challenge myself to dig a bit deeper. The new project I alluded to at the beginning of this post is going to be a regular feature on Skinny Dip …and it will involve me getting a bit more naked on here (figuratively speaking.) Because naked is good. So, stay tuned! I’m hoping to premiere it on Friday.

(Today’s image was found here.)

I feel like each of the “types” I described above could be expanded into full blog posts/articles. What do you guys think?

Do you have a certain “type” that you feel you have dated? (Guys are welcome to answer this question too)

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