WorldWideWaterCooler

Darren posted recently requesting suggestions for first dates in Vancouver. Being that I went on a LOT of them until recently, I figured I should weigh in.

How does a guy (or gal) make sure his (or her) first date passes muster, especially where Ridiculously High Standards are concerned? Follow these RHS Approved Dos and Don’ts:

DO: Invite your date out for a meal of some sort. The great thing about meal-as-date is that the end of the eating (esp. if the date isn’t going super well) is a great “end point” to the encounter. It’s a natural point where one could feel no guilt about thanking the other for a lovely time, but I really MUST be going and I’ll call you…

DON’T: Try somewhere totally unfamiliar to both of you if such things make you nervous.

DO: Do your research, read some reviews of the venue, can you afford it? Figure out what you might want (or want to avoid) on the menu, and evaluate the dress code so you aren’t the only one in Jeans or the only one in Couture.

DON’T: Forget your wallet. You should always carry enough cash to cover at least your half of the bill, as well as incidental extras, parking, and a cab home should it be necessary. Do NOT stop at the cash machine during a date. It’s tacky, and makes you look unprepared (which you are).

DO: plan the “short date” and the “extended version.” If you are having a terrible time, there is NOTHING worse than not having an escape route. If the date isn’t like most of those I had, however, then you’ll be thankful to have an option or two planned and available to continue your time together. If the weather’s cooperating (or even if it isn’t) take a walk around a local park, along the beach, or even around a local campus. Bad weather? Visit a museum, gallery, or just suggest another venue for some apres meal dessert, drinks or coffee.

DON’T: Plan “wardrobe incompatible” activities. This one is for the clueless guys to consider, and mostly pertains to shoes. If you tell your date you’re going dancing, and she should dress as such, she’ll probably wear some sultry, sexy shoes she can spin in - and which will also make her want to chop off her feet at the ankles at the end of the night. Suggesting a muddy walk along a gravel trail while she’s wearing these isn’t the best idea.

DO: Throw in a test or two to gauge your date’s reaction. Yes I know nobody wants to “play games” - but that’s really what dates are for. To fill in the blank in your ___ ever after. Decide what’s an important trait for your mate to exhibit, and see if it comes out when you put him or her on the spot.

Ladies: Walk up to a door (establishment, vehicle, whatever) and just stop. See if he opens it for you. Let the bill linger on the table to see if he picks it up right away or hesitates. Heck - visit the restroom (even if only to touch up your lipstick) and see if he takes care of things while you’re gone (extra double-plus-good points for those ones!). Will he help you with your jacket? Up stairs? Off a curb? Into and out of the car? If you let your hand linger on the table, will he reach across to caress it?

Gentlemen: Does she reach for her handbag or otherwise indicate or offer to pick all or part of the cheque? Does she laugh at the unfunniest joke you can muster up - even if she’s just laughing at your unfunniness? Does she continually scan the room, or keep her attention on you, even when you start talking about things you KNOW she’s not interested in? And will she agree to that muddy walk around the lake in her uncomfortable designer heels? If she goes for that one, you KNOW she’s into you - and heck, you can always offer to piggyback her around the big puddles.

NOTE: ETIQUETTE POINT! The asker does the paying. Ladies, if you invite a genetleman out for dinner, the bill’s on you. It’s the classy thing to do. Guys, same goes for you, though this is not an invitation to stop asking women out. If either one of you is expecting to go Dutch, accept your date’s offer to cover his/her half of the bill. However, if s/he is ungracious enough to not even offer, don’t ask. Be classy, cover the bill, and trash talk them to your friends later.

As for local first date ideas - with the above considerations in mind, here are my suggestions for venues/activities:

Fooding: Almost anything goes, taking the following into account: First dates are awkward enough without navigating crowded tables, yelling over the music or other “ambient” noise, waiting hours in line at a place that doesn’t take reservations (have one!) or dealing with mediocre service. Some of my favourite places to eat (on dates or otherwise) include: Chambar, Cru, Gotham, Cin Cin, Tojos, Carderos and Joe Fortes. If you’re out to impress a non-foodie (since the food is good, but overpriced for what you get) with a spectacular sunset, try one of the revolving restaurants. Also, your Earlstone’s Club establishments tend to work well on dates - only because they’re ubiquitous and predictible.

Activities: The key for these should be that they’re enjoyable, casual, and leave you breathless with eachother - not effort. I’d recommend against a strenuous hike, or anything that challenges a phobia (such as a suspension bridge) unless you know unequivocally that you’re both a) ironman/woman and/or b) fearless. I’d also say that it’s safer to stick within the city. Vancouver offers plenty of stimulation within accessible areas that allow for easy access, stunning scenery, and a quick escape. I’d also avoid malls or shopping (window or otherwise) - best to leave your bad taste and/or bad credit out of a first date. And for the love of Pete - if you’re going to see a movie (horrible date activity as far as I’m concerned), at least see it FIRST so you can talk about it afterward.

A good test of an idea is to ask yourself: “Should the worst-case scenario (broken ankle on a hike, whatever) actually play out AND we discover that we hate eachother - would I want to shoot my date or myself first?” If you can answer that question easily - seek help, you’re a sick individual. But you get what I’m saying. If the first date goes well, there are plenty of other opportunities for more remote and extended adventures together.

Again, some of my favourites: Any of the city beaches, Stanley Park (seawall or other trails), UBC Campus, or for some inside things, the VAG, the Vancouver Museum, the Aquarium, or the UBC Museum of Anthropology.

Ultimately, your job, as the asker of someone (and the favourable responder to the asker of someone) on a first date is to make your date feel comfortable enough that s/he can be her/himself around you, and ultimately have a good time while sussing eachother out. You should ALWAYS walk away from a first date having had a good time, whether or not you think you’d actually get along on a longer-term basis with your date. Keep that particular motive in mind, and you can’t really go wrong.

Finally, make sure you’ve cleaned your pad, changed the sheets, notified the roomies, stocked up on prophylactics, set out a couple wine glasses and put some fresh OJ in the fridge for morning. Because if you can execute a flawless and unforgettable first date, who knows where it might lead.*
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Someone said to me not too long ago (I don’t remember who it was, or when) that I should blog more about Neil.

Clearly a lesson in “be careful what you ask for” I present: Chicken Spit - A play in one act.

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The Scene: Neil & Jen’s Kitchen, Wednesday night, 10:30pm

Jen and Neil have just finished a very late dinner due to someone getting home from work late, and someone else grossly miscalculating how long it was going to take to roast this particular chicken (I’ll let you guess who’s who).

Both are cleaning up just enough to get the perishables in the fridge and anything else slimy or otherwise tempting out of the dog’s reach before they collapse for the night.

Jen’s piling dishes into the sink, while Neil’s putting the rest of the roast veggies into a plastic container.

Neil: prying the gooey, caramelized veggie cruft off the bottom of the roasting pan

Jen: looks over to see what the scraping noise is

Neil: starts trying to fling the bits of sticky carrot and parsnip off the tongs into the container

Jen: looks quizzically at Neil’s tong-flinging

Neil: gives up on the flinging and pries the veggies off the tongs with his teeth

Jen: figures Neil’s given up on saving that particular bit of veggies in favour of eating them, and turns away

Neil: FORCEFULLY AND LOUDLY SPITS MOUTHFUL OF VEGGIES ALL OVER WHAT WERE (A BRIEF MOMENT AGO) PERFECTLY GOOD ROASTED TUBERS

Jen: (Horrified, Confused, Tired, Cranky) “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

Neil: (Casually) “What?”

Jen: (has clearly snapped) “YOU… JUST…. SPAT! IN THE VEGETABLES! WHAT THE HELL!?!? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT??! WHAT THE MOTHERFSCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?”

Neil: (breaks into maniacal laughter) “I was hoping you’d do that!”

Jen: (even more confused) “do…. what? vegetables?… spit?….”

Neil: “I just wanted to get a reaction out of you - we’ve both been cranky for a couple hours, I needed to laugh. ”

Jen: (and still… confused) “so you spit in the leftovers?”

Neil: “yep - good huh?”

Jen: (finally clueing in, starting to smile) “You’re such an ass.”

Neil: “Yep. And it worked. You’re smiling now too.”

Jen: “I hate you. And I’m so blogging that.”

Oh no she didn’t!

Oh yes I did!

This is what happens when I’ve already mentally checked out of a job, and people aren’t updating their blogs fast enough.

Neil, will you ever forgive me?

Today is finally (FINALLY!) the last day I’m going to move my things out of my Burnaby apartment and into the new place. The gorgeous new place in Kitsilano, mere blocks from the beach, with the gigantic deck and the friendly neighbours and the fact that nearly everyone in the building owns a dog, including us. Oh, and the fact that I get to share it all with that boy I love (/end schmoop).

However, if there is one truth that anyone ever needed to know about me, it is this: I. HATE. MOVING.

I do somewhat enjoy unpacking, as well as the fun of setting up a new place exactly how I like it, and how shiny everything is when the new abode is freshly painted and scrubbed, and my stuff gets cleaned and rediscovered as it’s unpacked and put in its official place.

Everything else though, is torture. Finding a place is hellish. Dragging my possessions across town (including renting a truck and bribing friends) is a nightmare. Cleaning the old place for the new tenants is a completely unfulfilling chore - I hate cleaning for myself, why would I want to do it for anyone else? The time it all takes is just time I’ll never get back.

But the worst part, by far, is the packing. There is a special hell reserved for the rapists and child murderers in this world - and that hell is packing up my belongings. Comedian Dane Cook has a bit about how everyone has a sound (nails on a chalkboard, car alarms, etc.) that affects them so much, it makes them feel violent enough to want to punch a baby. That is how I feel about packing.

I’m not really a packrat in that I hang on to things because I’m afraid I will need them again someday, or think they may be useful at some point. It’s just that it’s so much easier to toss them into a cupboard or closet than actually get rid of them. I’ve been doing that for four years in the apartment I’m leaving, and I’m guessing that in the process of this latest move I’ve thrown out or given away nearly 40% of my possessions - some of which I never actually even unpacked after I moved in back in 2002.

I also foolishly thought that with the trip to Korea, and the crazy work schedule I was under, packing in time to move everything all in one day would be too much, so I’ve been doing it slowly over the past month.

Of course, doing it slowly in my world amounts to doing absolutely nothing for 3 weeks, then panicking for a week, and dragging boxes over carload by tiny carload.

But today the very last of the belongings that I’m moving with me are being put in the back of the J’Lo and toodling their way into Kits.

I’ve hired a cleaner to deal with the rest of the cruft, and I hand over the keys sometime in early August (my landlord lives out of town). Then begins the (only slightly) less torturous task of finding spaces and places for it all. Fitting over 2500 square feet of two people’s belongings into 2/5 of that space is not an easy undertaking.

At least it’s all over soon you say? At least I’ll be settled and can get on with another long stint in the place that I call home? I wish. We get to do it all over again in a year when this is finished.

I’m already saving for professional movers AND PACKERS to deal with it the next time around. That is, if in the meantime, the thought of it all doesn’t drive me screaming into the ocean that I moved to be closer to, never to be seen again.

I’m thinking that I’ve been pretty vague in the laundry list-ing of the goings on in my world these days on the watercooler. Since I know there’s at least a few of you out there who use it to keep up with the goings on of things in my world, here’s a breakdown of what the hell I’ve been up to:

Things with Neil are going really well. We just moved in together, the day after our three month-iversary in fact. The date was total coincidence - it was really the only weekend day we had available until sometime in August. It also sounds like it was rushed to some people - but that’s how we roll. He’s the first (and I hope the last) boy I’ve deemed worthy enough to share personal space with, so it’s overwhelming and exciting and amazing all at once. And I can say with absolute conviction that the only reason it works at all is because we have two bathrooms. Some things should definitely remain a mystery.

Work is officially crazy busy again. I think it’s going to take much more of a toll this year. As I’ve learned working with volunteers and members of non-profits in general, it’s a bit of a Catch 22. The passion and selflessness of those involved with the organization are what makes it such a rewarding place to be. However, while they’re at their day jobs, I’m at the club acting on that passion and selflessness - then when they make their way here, putting in their time being passionate and selfless, I’m trying to give the same amount of myself to my friends, family, and other interests that I’m passionate about. Since perception is everything, and so many people fail to see anything that doesn’t happen right in front of their faces, it takes a toll trying to manage an image of working hard for the organization while they’re not here, and maintaining some sort of work-life balance.

I’ve also got social plans out the wazoo for most of the rest of the summer. This coming weekend is Neil’s High School Reunion. The weekend after is my family reunion. The one after that - my Dad’s birthday. A week following is a rowing regatta in Victoria. The next weekend is Sue’s birthday, then a few days later is my birthday, then Brigette’s stagette the following weekend. Another seven days and Neil and I have a wedding to attend. Brigette & Markus’ wedding is fourteen days after that, and suddenly it’s September. In between that we’re also attempting to make it up to his parents’ place for a visit, a weekend in Tofino, and an official housewarming.

Crazy you say? Of course! But I really wouldn’t have it any other way. The only thing I’m really worried about is how much I’ve been neglecting the TiVo - but I think it’ll forgive me.

I’ve gotten mixed reactions when I talk to friends about the appropriateness and level of acceptance with which we (we being women) react to being awoken in the week hours with Ess-Eee-Ex.

The general conesnsus seems to be that they’re not really all that impressed with it. They’d rather sleep.

I strongly disagree.

Why?

The best explanation I can offer is that it’s somewhat akin to having a steamy dream, and waking up and it’s ACTUALLY HAPPENING. You know, instead of waking up spooning the dog.

What about you - are you pro or con mid-night nookie?

Scene: Bedroom, 4:21am

Me: Fast Asleep
He: *nudge*

Me: *snore*
He: *nudgenudgenudge*

He: *NUDGE!*

Me: mrrrrrf…. huhhhh?

He: Do you smell that?
Me: smell what?
He: smells like skunk!
Me: uh.. a little… I guess….
Me: (thinking “the window is open, we live in Vancouver, WHO CARES AT 4AM!”)

He: *gets up to pee*
Me: *goes back to sleep*

He: *nudge*
Me: WHAT?

He: so that smell? not a skunk.
Me: no?
He: no.
Me: then what?
He: my armpits.

Me: *rolls as far away from him as possible, burying nose in April Fresh duvet cover*

Me: Dozing between snooze cycles
He: Drinking coffee & checking email in bed.

Me: Still snoozing
**THUDSPLASHTHUD**
Me: Wakes up.
He: Looks bewildered.
Dog: Looks Amused.

Me: Rousted out of coffee-covered sheets
He: Still confused, goes for paper towel.
Me: Figures out that someone let go of his coffee cup mid-air thinking it was on the nightstand.

Me: Enjoys a laugh at his expense.
He: Moves the nightstand closer, sulks at his own stupidity, and goes to have a shower.

Me: Still giggling.

Now that the boy’s done gone and moved himself to an apartment that’s dog-friendly, 3 blocks from the beach, and cuts my daily commute in half, I find I’m spending most nights over there instead of in my own neglected abode.

This is serious people. Not only do I have a toothbrush there, I moved my COFFEE MAKER in. That is a Big Step. And I’m only the teensiest bit neurotic about it (mostly because further progress involves moving more of my self and my stuff, which I loathe to the very core of my being).

Thankfully, the change of venue hasn’t been too painful. He’s got wireless internet and I’ve got my laptop, so I can still get to all of my email, etc. My home phone is set to simulring to my cell as well, so it’s like I’m not actually gone at all. Add to that the bonuses of his insuite laundry, the daily strolls along Kits Beach with the dog and the fact that he still brings me coffee in bed every morning, I’d really start to sound crazy to not be spending as much time there as I am.

So guess what I do miss. If you said my TiVo, you’d be right! For goodness’ sakes people, my man doesn’t even own a TV! (In all fairness, he did until someone broke into his old place and stole it, but that was MONTHS ago!) We honestly don’t spend that much downtime at home, and when we do we read books or watch movies on his laptop - but I find myself absolutely CRAVING television.

Thank god for TiVoToGo - I think it’s time to put some regularly scheduled trips back to the homestead into the ol’ calendar so I can pop in and download shows to bring with me. It’s not quite the same as channel-surfing and pausing live TV, but it’ll do for now.

And yes, I have thought of just moving my TV over to his place, but one thing at a time people! I did just move my coffee maker over there, and there are only so many steps toward shacking up I can handle at any one time.

Him: Oh my god. These guys are just like you, but SO MUCH WORSE!

I was out shopping with Neil last night, picking up a few things at the local pharmacy.

Since I had Gravol on my list, and had already been tasked with picking out an appropriate bubble bath for his new soaker tub, I asked him to run and grab some for me.

He picks up the Gravol, throws it in the basket, we check out and go home.

So imagine my surprise when I actually looked at the package and saw something was not quite right with the wording. Check out the picture and see if you can figure it out.

His response when I pointed out his error? To laugh maniacally and say “Good luck with that!” of course. Jackass.

At least there wasn’t an urgent need for the medication, and I can return them for something a little more appropriate.

In the meantime, all either one of us has to do is utter the word “Gravol” and we burst out laughing uncontrollably. So those weirdos busting a gut over there about absolutely nothing? That’s us. Nothing to be alarmed about, just carry on with your business.

happy dog

Originally uploaded by skyec.

Yes, I know that when you love someone, you love them for who they are and not what they have.

But I can’t help but be thrilled that Neil’s got a really kickass dog. Other than the fact that she’s named Sasha (and really, I’m not a fan of human names for dogs - you’re supposed give your pets names you can’t get away with giving your children), she’s a gorgeous creatures and one of my favourite dogs on earth.

I have actually taken to calling her “the Stepdog,” so that if things go tits up, I can claim some visitation rights.

While I’ve been a dog person all my life, and my parents have always had dogs while I was growing up, some of the strange things she does take a bit of getting used to:

-She has a knack for laying exactly where I’ll trip over her in the middle of the night.

-She hardly ever barks. Except for at 4:00am in my strictly “no pets” building.

-She delights in taking two craps when I’ve only brought one bag.

-She tries to join in the fun when Neil and I are gettin’ busy.

-She likes to lick the water off of freshly showered legs (creating the need for another shower).

-She tries to lick the wet spot on the sheets. Yes, that wet spot.

Despite all that, I’m still totally smitten by her. How could you not love that face?

My ego has been waiting for people to ask, but as it seems that anyone who comments regularly already knows me in person (and therefore, the story), and nobody else cares enough to comment or email to ask, I present to you: The story of how the boy and I started going out.

It was a rainy day in March…. (Actually, I don’t know if it was raining, but since it was March, that’s probably a pretty good guess.)

After lamenting that there were no find-able good men left, and looking forward to 10 days of tropical troublemaking, I put a strict moratorium on dating. I stopped logging on to Lavalife and OKCupid, stopped checking the Craigslist personals, and told friends who expressed interest in setting me up with other singles they know that it would have to wait until I was back from my Vacation.

Then I went and broke all of my own rules. Because the guy was great? No. Because I thought there was no possible way it could work out.

The boy (we shall call him Neil, for that is his name) happens to work with a friend of mine’s fiancee. We’d been at a couple of the same parties before and had no interest in eachother (well, not true - I always thought he was cute, but he was also spoken for at the time).

Imagine my surprise then, when I was out for brunch with said friend and she told me that since he was back on the market, Neil mentioned in passing that I seemed like I’d be fun to date. After a bit of sleuthing it was discovered that really, Neil was a big ego hound and wanted to see if he could make it on the blog!

That all sounded fine and well. I’d let Mr. Rebound put his mad skillz to the test and score myself a night out and either a reasonably good time, or some really great content. It was win-win and really a no-brainer as far as I was concerned. We set up a date for March 16th, and agreed upon the time/place details.

I’d figured that even if the date did go well I’d have no problem putting him off for a week before I went away and could party, island style, guilt free.

Imagine my surprise then, when the date finally rolled around and we took a grand total of about eight blocks (I even remember the intersection we were driving past) before we fell into conversation, the ease of which most people only share with their very best friends. It continued on that way throughout dinner and a walk in the park afterward.

The comedy of errors that was the evening (the dancing we’d expected was not to be, and the walk in the park was a little challenging in the dancing shoes I’d worn) didn’t phase us a bit, and by the time we parted ways a little after 2am (the date started around 7:30-ish) I’d had one of the most enjoyable dates I’ve ever experienced, a few really sweet kisses, and was giddy and distracted enough to accidentally close my hand in the car door when I got home.

Good thing it went well, we were both expected to attend the aforementioned friend’s St. Paddy’s Day party the next night.

Once we’d each arrived at the party, we easily fell into that “couple space.” Without getting too schmoopy about it all, we seemed to immediately just “fit” with eachother.

The rest of that week was spent seeing eachother in any stolen moment we could find, followed by a week of offshore email novellas and a couple very long phone calls, culminating with a sweet (though decidedly un-schmoopy) airport reunion.

Since then, we’ve been pretty inseperable, are constantly amazed at how compatible we are, and have survived a long-weekend road-trip together. I even have him trained to realize that all I want in the mornings is coffee and silence, and he delivers on both counts.

Things aren’t easy (because if there’s any sort of relationship myth that needs to be dispelled, it’s that one), but they are really, really good. And after the nearly 20 months of bad-dates and bruised hearts I’ve just gone through, I wouldn’t settle for anything less.

As usually happens when you are seeing someone on a level that your schedule dictates whose house you’ll be sleeping at that night, the boy had a pile of dirty clothes at my place.

And since I was doing laundry anyway, I figured I’d toss his dirty clothes in with mine (cuz I’m just sweet like that - all those losers from before really are missing out!).

That’s when it happened.

I discovered his man-funk is actually strong enough to nullify the effects of laundry detergent!

See, he has this shirt that he runs in. It’s allegedly a technical fabric, and as those fabrics do, it dissipates the sweat and nastiness throughout the whole garment to keep you dry. Dry, and very very smelly. He’d gone running in the shirt 3 or 4 times before it made it into the laundry. You do the math.

Into the washing machine it went, then into the dryer.

As I was emptying the dryer, I pulled the shirt out, and with it wafted that familiar foul aura. I didn’t believe it at first, but a few cautious whifs (remember, his armpits can smell like feet people) later, it was confirmed.

The shirt STILL stank!

After a wash cycle with Tide with Febreeze, Lavendar Vanilla Fabric Softener, and two Outdoor Fresh dryer sheets, it still smelled exactly like man-funk.

After a 10 hour soaking with more detergent and some time to line dry, the funkiness has somewhat dissipated. Now it smells like detergent and chemicals. Not pleasant, just different.

If the man can do that to a simple shirt, if his odiferoius self is strong enough that laundry detergent is no match for his essence, I shudder to think of what I may have gotten myself into.

She: Want a Frosty with that?

He: Hmm…

She: You know you do…

He: Sure, a small one I guess.

She: (into the talking box) Ok, and… two small Frosties.

He: …

She: I was totally gonna get the medium, but you had to go and make the reasonable choice…

He: I wonder if they can make ‘em with skim milk?

She: **sigh**