Thursday, August 15, 2013

Allan




 Allan      
                            
You remind me of Princess Di.  Are you of British origin?  

Really?   Princess Di herself?   I know I am blonde, more or less her height, and more, rather than less, her weight.  I was born just a couple of weeks after her.  But when last I checked, I never looked pleadingly at the world with large brimming doe eyes (chin sulkily tucked in), bemoaning crowded marriages.  Though like her, I too have three in my domestic arrangement.  Mine comprises myself and a geriatric dog/cat combo, though Mr B is no Rottweiler, as Di famously called Camilla.  Or was it the sexy nanny, Tiggy-Legs who was the Rottweiler?  Or Charles himself?  I forget…there definitely was a Rotweiller in her domestic arrangement. 

He continues, warming to his PD theme: You look poised and confident, tall and graceful.  I can just imagine you speaking with a British accent.   
Allan



Sorry to disappoint, Allan.  The accent is not British.  I do, however hail from one of the colonies. I will tell you no more. You’ll have to guess.    
Anne

Being a girl that harbours a yen for one with a British Accent, (though Irish would trump all) I can sympathise with his sentiment.  A British Man could melt me at the “Hello, Anne.”  It’s obvious, though, that Allan is Canadian.  In his pictures, he sports an iconic lumberjackish brown and blue checked jacket.   He looks tanned and healthy, cycling in one shot, and in another, on a forest trail hefting a weighty backpack.  He’s neatly groomed with short cut dark grey hair, a pair of deeply set intense eyes and an open smile.  A couple of his pictures feature a boat as prop.  Maritime themes are very prevalent on the site.   Perhaps the nautical name, “Plenty of fish” ensures that sailorish-type men are disproportionately heavily represented?   Astonishingly often the men pose proudly next to a vessel of some sort, with or without fish.  My guess is the inclusion of fish indicates angling prowess, but more importantly a subliminal message regarding being a good provider.   Allan is without the fish so I may go hungry, but the boat is white and gleamish and of substantial length.  Being distinctly unseaworthy, I’d have to consult my sailing friends regarding calibre of his vessel.  Possibly it’s not his, but one he’s posing next to at some random marina?  One never really knows what deceptions are at play with these visual lures. 

I like to think I present a very attractive package, well educated, genial, sociable… he goes on to list various positive attributes.  The audacious words ‘very attractive package’ bring a wry smile to my lips, is it humour or shameless egotism?  Is he really serious?  I continue reading. 



Unsettled at noticing ‘sex’ included in his list of interests, and that he’d choose ‘making love in a forest rather than walking in a forest’,  I consult my daughter Cammy, (a necessary stabilizing  influence; ballast for my unbalanced morals)  before our correspondence progresses to the next level, talk of connecting. 

“For heaven’s sake, mum, he’s a man!  What do you expect? What man would actually rather walk in the forest if given the chance for livelier activities?   At least he’s honest.”



It transpires that we agree on a breakfast meeting at our local White Spot.
Upon arrival, I barely recognize the elderly man acknowledging me from a window booth.  He's practiced the age-old (ha!) deception of posting dated pictures online.   My guess is that he’s high-sixties or beyond.  The dark grey hair of the photos now borders on white and there’s a cane resting against the banquette seat beside him.  He levers himself up with his hands on the table, standing (unsteadily?) to greet me.  Chuckling wheezily, he indicates the cane, remarking, “This is just until my new hip makes itself more at home!”  Impelled by inbred politeness, I sit heavily opposite him causing the air to expel through the vinyl with a soft sigh.  I resolve to chat and enjoy my feed anyway.  They do a passable pile of pancakes at the White Spot, and it had been some time since I’d indulged. 
Coffees are brought to the table and I am alarmed at the extent of Allan’s Parkinsonian tremors.  Such is their vigour that as he lifts his juddering cup to his lips, coffee sloshes all over the table and down his shirt. Napkins are called for.  I feel awkward, unsure where to look.  Possibly his quaking is exacerbated by his excitement at seeing Yours T, but it is obvious to me that there are serious medical issues at play, especially when he says, “What did you say your name was again?” 


I am committed to a meal with the man now; our food has been ordered and I can’t hoof it out of there, much as I’d like to.
We progress to talking about my life drawing group, and he compliments me on my work.  He explains he’s seen many drawings that are not of my standard.  I ask if he too, does life drawing.  He awkwardly admits that he’s to be found nude on the other side of the easel.  Such is my enthusiasm for all aspects of life drawing, I speak without thinking, remarking on how many art models struggle to hold down jobs, need money or have psychological problems.  (Models reading this, don’t take offence, I model too.  For all three reasons.)  Allan denies any of the above and speaks in vague terms about art appreciation.  Then the realization dawns on me.  Does he harbour hopes that a lovely lady artist, overwhelmed by desire at the sight of his aforementioned “Very Attractive Package”, will corner him after class and suggest he might want to see her etchings? 
For a rash moment, I am tempted to ask him to model for our group.  He would be brilliant to draw, alive with character and meandering line.   Sharron and Kaye would love me forever if I landed this fish.  But no, I don’t want him to think I’m interested.  That would be unfair.  Sharron and Kaye love me forever anyway. 
As I look across at Allan, I shudder at his having put down ‘sex’ as an interest.  And on the forest floor?  Sylvan visions of the two of us cuddling under the canopy, walking stick within convenient reach, flood uninvited into my head. Given his decrepitude, he’d never be able to get himself up. (either way!) Surely the man is long past all of that nonsense?  The expression, “There may be snow on the roof but there’s fire in the furnace!” may be all very well in theory, but I would not be a willing participant in the practical application.  God, no!
These thoughts bring to mind an experience related by a friend.  She’d been dating a man of mature years for some weeks before making the decision that she could no longer continue with both the meals paid for and deferment  of his advances.  A special night out, complete with hotel suite, was arranged. It all ended disastrously because he had both over imbibed, and misplaced his Viagra, so was unable to rise to the occasion. 
Breakfast may not be an appropriate time for regaling Allan with this narrative.  Besides, though he’d brought it up first, I wasn’t about to lay bare the topic of sex. 
It’s been said that, after a certain age, many men are just looking for a purse or a nurse.  Looking at the relic before me, it is clear that I’m dealing with the latter here.  My heart hurt for him.  He was genuinely a sweetie, and I know would treat his woman very well.  I, however, have done more than my fair share in the care-giving department. The horror of facing major health issues without a loved one walking the journey alongside must be a difficult reality.   
I leave our meeting in a contemplative mood.  The prospect of facing my future alone doesn’t hold the appeal that it did before the morning’s revelations.   As I heard recently on my BBC comedy podcast, “Life kicks you in the teeth and then you die.”

***

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

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Friday, July 26, 2013

Jim





Jim

You have a genuine and irresistibly sexy smile.  I would love to see it in real life. Jim.

What is it about my smile?   The double blow of absentee canines and tea/coffee addiction surely has a negative net result?  Quite possibly these are Jim’s standard words of introduction.  But I’m a sucker for flattery, it’s very affirming.  Being ‘long in tooth’, I will gracefully accept all compliments on offer, veneered or not. 

Jim’s picture is inspired; in it he proffers a perfectly chilled glass of white, judging by the opaque frosting on the glass.  How compelling is that?  He too, has a genuine and irresistibly sexy smile and intense indigo eyes with diverting dark lashes and brows framing them.  The surprise is that he’s totally bald.  I've never touched a bald head in my life, this could be a first…let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Anne.  Hats off to him for not covering up the fact with a toque.



Jim’s list of interests hint at a romantic and thoughtful man.  A sampling:  

Sipping wine on the beach under a full moon.   Ooh lovely!  An illegal activity that I would enjoy hugely.

Stars seen from my hot tub.  This sounds good in theory, but two questions come to mind-‘ How many other women have been in said tub?’  and ‘Does the water ever get changed?’ A third consideration flashes unbidden.  Participation in this activity would require donning my bikini (I would NOT go nude – the girls would float as two flat lily pads on the surface…  waahhh!)   I give an involuntary shudder. This lure is positively repellent. I never did like hot tubs much, even in the days when I looked good in them.

Throwing together a gourmet meal for you.  There can’t be much that is sexier than watching a man cook for me, though I've yet to experience this first hand.  My thoughts on this subject are informed by a brilliant young UK poet- Hollie McNish.  I will link to her reading of ‘My boyfriend can cook’ at the end of this posting.   After you’ve listened, your attitude toward men cooking will never be the same.



The Economist. Promising, a reader!  Interested in world events! But troublesome… a Right-Leaning inclination? 

I enjoy other cultures and foods. Me too.  Very much.

Hello Jim-
Thank you for your kind words about my smile, though I am not sure I agree.  Either you’re a genuine romantic or have had professional help with your profile writing.  If it’s all true, you must be sensitive, open-minded and talented.  Your hot tub activity did elicit a twinge of alarm.  I would have to know someone VERY well before they see me in my bikini.  However, that consideration aside, I am intrigued.  Anne



He replies, telling me not to worry about the hot tub issue at this stage, and asks if I’d be willing to drive to Victoria to meet him.  What the heck?  I’ll live dangerously and agree, despite our minimal message exchange.  After all, a protracted back and forth correspondence can be impositional on a girl’s time.  Experience has taught me that length of time spent corresponding proportionally increases the risk that I’ll blow my prospects with hastily written or ill-thought out messages. Perhaps it’s wiser to meet in person before I cause train smashes.  Also, it’s better to meet earlier in the game and be shot with the man right off the bat if it’s not going to work out between us.  

Ever aware that these tasty masculine morsels may be snapped up by the other women, I should not to let the grass grow under my feet. This one may well be a Prize Catch. Did I mention he’s an engineer and stands 6’2”?  

Such is my motivation regarding Jim that I agree to drive to Victoria for a walk together along the harbour front.  It’s a beautiful day, and being overdue to see a girlfriend in Victoria, I will be able to knock down two pins with one bowling ball. 
***
As I drive the Malahat highway, the summer wind messing my freshly washed hair -wayward strands sticking to my lip gloss- and my African music playing, I am suffused with joy and hope.  Without exception I approach each new encounter brimming with optimism that perhaps this one will be special, will think me special.  A friend likened it to going to look at a house for sale.  After the initial viewing, one already envisions oneself moved in, visualizing  where each piece of furniture will go, seeing oneself drinking morning tea on that window seat, snoozing under that maple tree; then it all comes  crashing down when the sale falls through and you have to muster strength and start over.   Meeting new people is exciting, but it’s buffeting on the self esteem to be assessed and found wanting.  What a privilege it is to feel secure in one’s single status, to believe that male companionship is a bonus in one’s life, not a necessity.  How empowering to come from that position of strength and independence.  Yet beneath my veneer of capability and contentment resides a girl that is vulnerable and fearful of the scrutiny attendant with each encounter.   Adolescent insecurities about appearance, conversational skills and clumsy gracelessness which plagued my teenage years have not altogether vanished.  Our human reality is that we just want to be liked.  Correction.  We just want to be loved. 

In person, Jim is even more handsome than his picture.  I bask in his warm smile and hug as we meet at the Inner Harbour. It’s hard to tear my gaze from those eyes.   He’s beautifully presented in a freshly-ironed pale grey cotton shirt, cuffs rolled to expose forearms, and beige chino trousers.  A charcoal sweater is slung over his shoulders, even my untrained eye can tell cashmere when it spots it.  Wow!  I am flustered and determined not to blot my copybook.   Thank heaven we’ll be walking rather than sitting opposite each other. This way I won’t be reduced to distracting palpitations by his indigo eyes or tempting forearms.



As we stroll side by side in the sunshine,  Jim speaks in glowing terms about his two exceptional sons and their many academic achievements.  I, in turn, try to make my own offspring seem reasonably successful; none of which is incarcerated, addicted or homeless.  

Before long, our conversation touches on the recent train accident in Lac Megantic, Quebec. There is bleak sadness as we exchange thoughts about this disaster.  Jim mentions that he lived in Quebec City a few years ago.   I can’t contribute much; my overriding memory of Old Quebec City comprising sublime recollections of the most delectable Maple Crème Brulee I've ever eaten, so I listen. At length.  Alarmingly, he becomes more and more agitated as he rouses to this theme, ranting about the Language police there, the way the French would happily tear apart the country, and how unpleasant life is there for the minority English speakers.  Unease replaces my enchantment. I don’t, however, feel in a position to judge, never having lived there so not knowing what it is like, day to day, being English and living in Quebec.  

Unsettled by his diatribe, I reel the conversation Westward and comment brightly that it’s seldom, if ever, we encounter much French here in Victoria.  This prompts him to respond, “Yes, I moved to Victoria because it’s so very English.  I love it here.”  There’s time for only a flicker of my (‘irresistibly sexy’) smile, before Jim’s remarks, like BC ferries, head to the mainland.  He declares he could never live in Vancouver, as so many of the neighbourhoods have been ruined by the inundation of Chinese and East Indians.  “It’s worse than those floods in Calgary! If you go to Fraser Street, where I grew up, you would think you’d been transported straight to New Delhi, not a white face to be seen!  The same for Richmond, except there its hoards of Chinese!”  In conclusion, he adds emphatically, “Nothing could induce me to live in Vancouver.  Hong-couver!  Har Har!” 

 

I am halted in my tracks by a tsunami of disbelief.  He stops too, and turns those blue eyes to me.  There is sharpness in them that was not there earlier.  “I appreciate that you have every right to your views,” I say, “but I am diametrically opposed to them.”  Red blotches bloom on the skin of his neck.  His anger frightens me but I say with measured calm, “There is no way I can see things working out between us.  I’m sorry, but I think it’s best that we part company before I say something I regret.”

“You’re right, Anne.  The last thing I want is to be with someone who feels superior and continually judges me.  And by the way, your smile isn’t that fantastic after all.”

Jim’s cutting voice rings in my head as I make my way back to the car.  Retail therapy is necessary to blunt the edge of his words, so I avail myself of ‘Bonus Time at Clinique’ offered at the Bay, and a stop at Patisserie Daniel for a heavenly almond croissant.  Experience has taught me that yummy food does assuage pain.  Fleetingly.

Later, after tearfully recounting my ordeal to her, I take a glass of perfectly chilled white, proffered by my dear friend.  Like Jim, she has blue eyes and a winning smile, but unlike him, has a generous and inclusive approach to all who share our planet.  As we raise our glasses, she says that my smile really is genuine and lovely, sexy as anything, as are my dimples. 

I believe her. 



Monday, July 8, 2013

Chris




Christopher

I am adventuresome and I love travelling and have lived and worked abroad. I love technology and if we connect, you’ll never again have to worry about your computer (or connectivity! Ha ha) problems again.
  
Sold!  These have to be the MOST WELCOME words I've ever read on this site!

His interests are not as varied as one might wish.  Technology, Science Fiction, road trips, trading, Stimulation games.  Stimulation?  Now that sounds lively and intriguing. I will have to tickle an explanation out of him on that one.  The final two listed- oh joy- are travel and dining out. It goes without saying I adore travel, and dining, whether in or out, is an activity I approach with some degree of passion. 

He then describes what holds appeal for him.  The woman I am looking for is tall, amusing, clever and confident.   I like women who take care of themselves and are active and athletic.  

Done, done, passably done, done…. but Athletic?  Too many of them tend to bang on about athletic, don’t they? I still have mortifying recollections of swimming in a relay at our high school gala.  Our team was so far behind that, as the winner was touching the edge of the pool in victory, I, the final swimmer representing our team, was just entering the water.  As specified, I was obliged to do two lengths of butterfly as the entire school watched. Possibly some WGHS readers of this blog remember my heroic achievement? Despite resounding cheers upon my completion of the final length, I resolved at that young age, that Athleticism and Sport were two words that need not enter my vocabulary of experience.  Ever again. 



Still, there was that enticing lure re the computer tech support services.  My own private on-demand IT department holds great appeal, given that my archaic (Y2K approved!) computer has taken to freezing unpredictably, or going pale and hazy, with that infuriating blue circle spiralling hypnotically for minutes at a stretch. (Windows is Not Responding)  Other times it feels the need to shut down at random, or annoyingly configure its updates.  Yes, if it works out with Chris, I could have a functionally new desktop within weeks!

Chris' photo reminds me a bit of my David.  He stands on Capilano suspension bridge, legs apart, bracing against the sway of it, and not holding the side ropes, like I would have done.  I suppose this was selected to demonstrate brazen courage, to counterbalance the nerdy stereotype.  He’s got squareish metal framed glasses, (not dark frames, but it will do) large brown eyes, and light brown hair and beard.  Actually, on inspection, he’s quite a bit like my Ron, who also had a penchant for gadgetry.  Of course I want to meet him. 

Hi Chris - your words are irresistible to me, and I am not referring to the ‘Adventuresome and loves travelling bit’, though that can’t go amiss.  No, it’s your tech support declarations that already have me in a swoon.  We girls love that type of talk.

I feel I showed remarkable restraint to speak in such general terms about his allure, not mentioning my Dowager Dell at that critical juncture.

Happily, we agree to meet at a pub, my side of Victoria.  I make sure I have my gadgetry on hand to impress: my red cell phone that’s a lot smarter than myself, my ipod, replete with BBC podcasts, and my little tablet, favourite of my three techie youngsters.  Chris’s going to like me.  I’m very 2013. 

 
He stands to greet me and I feel like I’m next to one of my boys, who tower in rarefied air at 6’5”.  For someone who has a yen for athletic women, he sports a bit of a naughty tummy, but he’s got twinkly eyes, a tidily manicured beard and though the hair is receding a bit, it’s thick and full.  I’m quite chuffed that he’s agreed to meet. I’m going to enjoy this.

As he had been pecking away on a tablet computer identical to my own when I walked in, I pull mine out with glee and declare that we can congratulate ourselves on wisely not chipping up for the Apple, which runs twice the price.  Without delay, I avail myself of his computerish wisdom and get him to install a fantastic predictive text app on my device.  Happily this legacy will cheer me for days to come.  For this alone, (and the cider) the drive was worthwhile. 


I am never sure of the etiquette around payment during these meet and greet dates.  In no way do I want to feel obligated to any of the men, so it is with hesitation that allow Chris to buy me a cider. 




It’s tall and cold and fizzing, and I take a refreshing sip. My spirits are equally effervescent.   Yes!  I am going to enjoy this.

But then his cell chirps with a text message.  He lifts it from the table, reads it, smiles, and spends a few minutes texting back and forth, all the while, the smile playing on his lips. My eyes drift around the room but I find little of interest to occupy me, besides the cider.  Finally his frenetic thumb activity winds down and he places his phone on the table, saying, “Sorry about that.” 

I am not enjoying this.  It reminds me of a story about my son David.  Some years ago, he took a girl out for supper, a first date.  She was articulate, beautiful and lofty as the Eiffel Tower itself, so he approached the evening with optimism.  She too, had a cell phone-texting dependency, and after three electronic interruptions during the block of time between the initial sit down at the table until the food arrived, Dave had had enough.  When she finished texting and put the phone down on the table with its eager bright screen alert for incoming messages, Dave reached over, picked it up, turned it off, and put it in his top pocket.  “I’ll give this back to you when we have finished our meal,” he told her. “I am unwilling to compete with technology.” Needless to say, their relationship didn’t exit the starting gate. Though initially it had been Dave’s intention to pay, they went Dutch on the meal. 

Presuming this story would be of interest to Christopher, I entertain him with David’s encounter.  At the conclusion of the tale, he looks a little riled, and says, “She can’t have been too happy with him taking her phone like that.”  Oops! 

I fortify myself with some mouthfuls of Friendly Cider.  I consider bolting, but there is no way that cider was going to waste.

Chris is not overly forthcoming with sparkling conversation, so I change tack.  “I see you also enjoy Sudoku and Mensa puzzles?  I love stuff like that.  Particularly cryptic crosswords,” I tell him. “And I do the Mensas in my bath at night.”  All this was pretty tongue-in cheek-provocative on my part.  I had a very strong suspicion his Stimulation Games are not intellectual, but would involve equipment like feathers, clothes pegs and hardware of the fifty-shadeish variety. 



I lean forward in eager anticipation of his reaction.  I am curious to know more about this stuff. These are uncharted waters for me.

He looks perplexed.

“Stimulation games.” I prompt him, “You said in your profile you enjoy them.”

He still looks confused, then comprehension dawns. “Not stimulation, simulation.  They are computer games in virtual worlds.” He elaborates in tedious detail, quickly losing me.   



It is all more complicated than the plot of the Matrix.  Though my feigned interest is Oscar-worthy, I burn with hot coals of mortification.  My eyes had slid over his written profile in so cursory a manner that I misread this critical word.  Of course it wasn’t titillating Stimulation Games!  Of course Chris’ stimulation was computer-generated!

As we are in a pub, there are billboard-sized TV sets jauntily flickering all around us.  A hockey game is playing, and he starts blatantly watching, not attempting to engage me.  I feel I am an annoyance to him, tearing him away from what he’d rather be doing. 





I am really not enjoying this.

I battle on gamely trying to hold more appeal than Hockey, which, in Canada, would be verging on miraculous.  It is obvious where his loyalties lie.   When my last ambrosial mouthful of cider is swallowed, I am delighted to hear his cell phone ringing.  He picks it up, and says to me, “Do you mind if I take this?” “Not at all, Chris, I should get moving anyway.”  I answer and, faster than you can say ‘Twitter’, hasten to the nearest exit.