Alright so here is the 411. We have like a lot to catch up on, so I am going to require your undivided attention. That is why I am giving you this opportunity to shut down your Facebook and return to the kitchen to refill your cup of black coffee and/or glass of red wine. (Adequate pouring time.) Now, I have one last request. Please turn up your speakers of plug in your head phones and click here. You’re darn right I am soundtracking this session!
PART ONE: The difference a letter can make
Speaking of Hannah Georgas, (woop woop) I have decided to get back in the dating game. It has been almost a full year since my relationship with the Polish Prince ended. Since then the only sexual contact I have experienced was with a five-foot-one Mexican drag queen dressed as Britney Spears in the music video for “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” (I can’t make this shit up.) Well I don’t know whether it’s the fact that I am drowning in wedding invites, or the cool temperature outside keeps screaming “NEST” but my sex is on fire.
The truth is my love life is kind of a like a 911 phone call that goes straight to voice mail. A total lost cause. It might have something do with the fact that I spend thirteen hours a day covered in tomato sauce; but even still, I have never had much luck meeting men. I decided this past year that I was going to get offline and really put my face out there. The trouble is that I just don’t do well in bars. Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate the lower lighting, but sometimes that is just not enough to put a bitch at ease.
At 1181, I always get too self-conscious of my less-than flat stomach and end up drinking a full bottle of bubbles when I start off ordering one glass. At Pumpjack, I sit in a corner, sip on draft beer and try not to look too much like Bambi. For some reason, whenever I walk in that bar, I am always afraid I am going to get strapped down to a pool table and served-up for Happy Hour. At Junction and Oasis, well actually those two don’t count because I never bothered to wait in line that long.
Online, the sad truth is I am running out of options. I am skeptical about POF because of the amount of douche bags that have come in to my life as a direct result of me logging on to that site. I can’t even talk about “Match.com” which practically destroyed my entire ego after I woke up to an email that literally said “0 People are interested in you.” In terms of Manhunt, Adam4Adam, and every other raunchy site I accidentally signed up for six years ago and cannot seem to unregister from, I am not quite there yet. Maybe one day I might want my first date to be anon but for right now I still want to see the person’s face.
So where I am going with this you ask? Right, Scruff! So I was at the salon a couple of weeks ago and my Scissor Ninja told me about all the men he was meeting on an app named Scruff. Apparently Scruff was similar to Grindr, but had a much larger cross-section of men who were looking to date. These male users also had facial hair, complex skin and less than perfect physiques. I thought it sounded right up my alley and so I downloaded the program as soon as I got home.
I created a profile, wrote a witty description of myself, and flicked my status to “online.”
Well, you are never going to guess what happened. The first two responses I got were propositions to hook up at the Fairmont Hotel. My only reply was “Which floor are you on?” I dismissed both men because they were staying under the 22nd floor which is my cut-off. Like me, E.M. Forester always appreciated a Room with a View. After that, I got four more messages and was delighted to feel my pocket vibrate with something other than work emails.
The tragic part was that all of them, and I kid you not, were in regards to a spelling mistake that I had made in my profile. Ok so fine, I have may have written that I was interested in “romantic and/or plutonic relationships.” I was unaware at the time, but now know that “plutonic” is actually spelled with an “A.” Don’t get me wrong, I am always a fan of proper spelling and grammar, but no one felt strong enough to comment on my perfect bone structure or adorable interests and hobbies, just my one-letter mistake! As if!
I used to be a bitch about well-written internet profiles, but now I have grown, and realize that I am not looking for a partner who can ace a Spelling Test. I have dated enough cooks to know that poor spelling has no correlation to bedroom performance. Needless to say, I deleted Scruff before I even bothered to respond.
PART TWO: the fox, the bitch and the wardrobe
(This post is already running sixteen hours long, so I understand if you would like to return to this section another day!) So approximately ten days ago, a gentleman caller invited me to attend the Opening Gala of Vancouver Fashion Week. A fellow writer, he informed me that he was covering the week’s events for a local newspaper and was up one brand new suit and down one “plus one.” I acquiesced immediately and looked forward to having an excuse to dress up.
On a time crunch, I finished work at 6:00PM on Monday night and left myself with approximately 32 minutes to find a fashionable outfit. With a budget of -$273.00 (that was actually the balance in my chequing account at the time) I hauled ass to Winners. Scrambling down each aisle, I managed to put together a full outfit under $100 with no time to spare. I literally skipped to the front of each line screaming “bitch this is an emergency! Your wall clock can wait!”
Returning home with just enough time to strap on my suspenders, a cab showed up outside my front door and I was off to Chinatown. Standing in line to get in, at first I was not surprised that no on recognized me; because the only times I have attended this events was to serve canapés. After four years, I have come to appreciate that climbing the social ladder in this city requires a lot more time and patience than I first expected.
Inside, the crowd was packed with bitches and I loved every second of it. Surrounded by judgment, I took a sip from my $14 glass of wine, caught up with my date, and alternated my standing pose every 4 to 6 minutes.
My biggest revelation during the evening came just before the runway show. All this time, I thought that no one at these events ate canapés because they had eating disorders. But as I wiped the oil-soaked tomato bruschetta off my brand new Calvin Klein shirt, it became readily apparent the reason why.
The best part of the entire experience was that Fashion Week is the only event in Vancouver where people don’t look at you funny when you ask them to take multiple photos of yourself. Every runway show is like Dorian Gray’s playground! The glitz, the glamour and the uncompromising egos! At the end of the night, after the paparazzi had long gone, the two of us got our photo in front of the vacant Sponsor Board. There was no red carpet or page six spread, just two gay men trying to get their money back on their outfits one tweet at a time.
PART THREE: like I have time to write this
Alright, I gotta go! In regards to my new apartment! I love it! Will tell you about it sometime! I am headed to Nashville next week for a wedding, so I should have some good stories for you when I come home!