The cowboy & the nutcase

Do you remember a few months ago - I mentionned meeting an american cowboy from Kansas city - uprooted and now living in Minneapolis - on my last cruise to the carribean?

This was end of February, early March - after entertaining the idea of a long-distance "relationship" for a few weeks following the cruise and talking via webcam almost every night, he invited me over to his place and sent me a plane ticket, making sure I didn't have any endless lay-overs, shelling out an extra two hundred dollars to get me a direct flight . "Let's see how this could be in real life, he said. We'll both be working during the day, this wouldn't be a vacation - but we could spend our evenings together - just like a REAL couple, in REAL life." What I didn't know at that point - is that he didn't have one. My cowboy had no life whatsoever.

A few days before my departure to Minneapolis - in the dead of winter, mind you - Rose & Justin were spending their March break with their father - we had a webcam conversation that left me panicked. From what I remember, I asked him about his personnal history with his previous wife/girlfriend: - "why did she leave baby, what happened?"- some random piece of information any sensible woman flying 3,000 miles to spend a week in her virtual boyfriend's high-rise condo in the American mid-west and concerned with her personnal safety would be concerned about - anything, really - anything to give her a reason not to get on that plane, to bail out, you know what, it's not a good idea after all, let's just stop this here, shall we? Thank you, it was fun, see you on a next cruise perhaps - yes he seems nice but he might be a psychopath kind of thing - just give me a reason to not go through with this, will ya? - Any evasive ready-made conventional answer would have been ok really, would have made me feel like I was dealing with a semi-normal human being - so I was there, at the other end of the webcam, watching him, waiting for him to answer something, anything - but instead, his eyes turned mean, he fumbled, pointed his finger at me via the magical world of cyber communications and screamed at me. "That's not of your fucking business! Stop asking me these questions! You poke, and poke, and you don't shut up! What difference does it make! You bitches are all the same! You always need to get your way!" I was startled - horrified - and started crying. "what...D...I didn't mean to...why are you so mean to me...what did I say..." and then he made a hand gesture that meant "whatever ", looked at the computer screen, and in a fit of rage, unplugged the webcam, therefore ending abruptly our surreal conversation. Now that's a first - I've never had a guy hang up on me live on camera. Not pretty. And totally uncalled for. I just layed there in my bed, laptop on my thighs, stunned - and worried. What the fuck is up with that dude???

At that moment, red lights were flashing in my mind, and alarms were going off like crazy. RED ALERT - CRAZY NUTCASE ON THE RADAR - I was not going to Minneapolis anymore. No fucking way.

Three days later, my friend was driving me to the aiport - Montreal to Minneapolis-St.Paul. To this day I don't know what kept me going. I was scared as hell. But I had to go and see for myself.

There she is - Happy, traveling Bridges - at the Delta airlines bagage check-in, laptop in case, in a state of mind I like to call fully conscious denial, happy to be flying somewhere - anywhere - with a smile on my face.

Regardless.

Love boat blues

Sapphire beach in St. Thomas

I have been back for almost a week now. This was the first time I went to the carribean in the dead of winter. Coming into Ottawa and seeing the snow on the ground was a definite bummer. I turned to the guy next to me and started pouting - like a little girl who just dropped her ice cream cone on the sidewalk - except this ice cream cone had just spilled all over the Lester B. Pearson tarmac.

I had the most amazing time on the cruise. Time flies when you're having a blast...With stops in the Bahamas, St. Thomas and my favorite, St. Marteen's...this was a party to remember - Met up with all my cruise buddies, Al, Matt, Beth & Cindy, met some new friends, got to dress up for theme parties, spent most of the week with a cocktail in one hand and a beach bag in the other - and, just like last time I went on a singles cruise...met someone. A sexy 6'4 midwestern cowboy from Kansas settled in Minneapolis.

Where is Minneapolis, exactly?

"...soon will be making another run..."

I have been busy, busy, busy, like never before. So many things are happening. New jobs, new contracts, perhaps a new house, and waddaya know, Lee - the not-so ingenious engineer - father of my children, is taking me to court because he thinks he pays too much child support. Bastard.

Whatever. I hired a pitbull-lawyeress and will see him in court on January 16th. The hell with em', I say.

Meanwhile, I will be spending the next week on the Carnival Valor, in the carribean, with my cruise buddies. I plan to have lots of fun, to put it lightly.

When I get back, I'm starting everything anew (as you can already see it's started already :))

Happy new year to all my friends, known and unknown, all over the world.

B.

Bumps in the road

I bumped into the Lieutenant last weekend; walked straight passed him at the Heart & Crown, didn't even notice him. He, on the other hand, stopped me by putting his hand on my shoulder as I was walking out. I was with Keith, and we just had a few pints. He was sitting at the bar with one of his buddies.

-Hey there Bridges; how are you?

-Oh! er...hi...

-How was your dinner?

-My dinner?

(For some reason I thought he was referring to my diner with another beau, i.e. the Professor. An awkward silence ensues. Penny drops.)

-Oh! My dinner....the dinner at my place, three weeks ago....yes...well it was great, I served lobster, we all got drunk, everybody had a blast.

-That's great.

We both smile. His buddy, whom I had never seen before, looks at me, then at Keith, and says to the Lieutenant : "You guys work together???"

Awkward silence again. Lieutenant looks at Keith with a cheeky smile; someone's who suspects something fishy is going on, and replies.

-No; we met at the Lieutenant's Pump, you know, on Elgin. So Keith, how's your wife?

-She's a bit hungover actually; we had a late night. We're on our way to meet her.

I look at him and say nothing. I just smile unawaringly. Another awkward silence. Enough. That's my cue to wave the boys goodbye.

-It was nice to see you; you boys play nice, now!

I wink at the Lientenant whilst merrily walking out. Keith follows me out the door.

- Your guy just gave me that look....

- What look?

- The look of the guy who suspects another guy of having an affair!

- What????

- Everytime we bump into him, we're alone together, Bridges...and he gives me that smile...

- Well he knows you're Monica's husband...Surely he doesn't think....No...really????

Keith looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

That can't be good for either of us.

Irony, life is all about irony

I have been crazy-busy in the last few days. I am looking to buy a new house, looking to find a new job, and possibly if I'm lucky, a new boyfriend. (actually I never really stop doing that - I just pretend I'm not). Various events occured which contributed to point me in the right direction; I have found a great new house not too far from where I live, so the kids don't have to change school (of all the things I really can not be arsed to do is go through one year - yes, one year - of the trials & tribulations of uprooted children...it is quite unecessary) a new-build townhouse, with 3, yes, three complete bathrooms and a lovely fireplace and an open-space kitchen and dining room - my dream come true - that could be ready as soon as next March. I'm a happy camper.

Then, job-wise, I have been offered a few opportunities, all of which were interesting, but not enough to get me out of Kopinski. Plus, when Mr. Kopinski heard I was looking to better my situation, he offered me a raise, a pass for the indoor parking (see previous post), tickets for a popular show in town and somehow, the documents I have been getting lately are much more interesting then what I'm used to. Plus, I kinda like the guy. He puts up with my diva-ish behaviour from time to time, and it makes me feel at home. And it doesn't hurt that I had a $500 bonus on my paycheck this week. Thank you Mr. Kopinski; I love to feel the appreciation, especially when you put it that way.

Love-wise, two weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting a very interesting chap. I sometimes go to these single dinners for professionals downtown Ottawa, just for the sake of it. It's not very often that I get to meet people I would like to see again, but last time, I met a rocket-scientist, quite litteraly. He's British, arrived last January, is an engineering professor & researcher at a prominent university in town and is quite charming. Can you believe my luck???? A single Englishman in Ottawa??? Well cut my leg and call me shorty.

We have a date tonight. Café Paradiso.

Tomorrow, rugby finals.

Life is good.

In praise of cold showers

Who says romance is dead?

This morning in my mailbox. At 9 h 30.

Bonjour Bridges,

Hopefully you had a great Sunday! And that you managed to reorganize your house... :)

(An unexpected desire to clean & reorganize my house on Sunday was my - sad but true - reason for not wanting to see my aspiring prétendant monégasque on Sunday)

In regards to our Friday evening, I hope I didn't provoke something you didn't want to do … !! I wouldn't want you to think I'm one of those obnoxious parisian men you spoke to me about!

(What parisian men? I remember telling him my story of the danish father met briefly in Paris who tried to stick his tongue in my mouth whilst holding his 6 month old baby in one arm - after a one hour conversation about family, Canada and Denmark - cue to Bridges running away in disgust from the parisian café - but I swear, I have nothing no more personnal dirt about parisian men - but give me a few minutes, I'm sure I could make some up)

I enjoyed that sexual relationship with you on Friday night but I felt a certain hesitation during the act...which is very normal because you don't know me very well.

(WHAT!!!!!!!!!!)

By the way, I have to tell you that I went through a complete STD testing in the last few weeks (blood test, analyse, urinary tract) and ALL (yes, that was underlined) the tests were negative.

(THANK GOD FOR THAT!!!!!!)


Next time I see you, if you decide you ever want to see me again, I will bring the original documents proving the results.

(Don't worry mate; Somehow, now I don't see that happening.)

Despite everything, I don't want to see you again just for the sex, and I enjoyed the time I spent with you in bed and I think your work and your life are very interesting.

Plus, you are very funny and I had a lot of fun discussing with you.

(Thank you luv, er...spread the word?)

Call me whenever you want...anytime..really, anytime, day or night...I enjoyed talking to you...and I don't think for a second that you are like this obsessive girl who stalked me for a week that I told you about... :)

(ER...HELP?!)

OK. Now, please don't see this as a way of thrashing a man's interest in yours truly with floods of sarcasm in the name of self defense triggered by fear of...of....but...

Right about now, I feel like the flicker on the candle as it's being extinguishded by Niagara Falls. And a bit worried that I'm going to be stalked for a week.

I think my unconscious might be sending me signals from the depths. I can feel wires connecting as I write.

(There goes my mobile - well waddaya know - it's the guy who was stalked for a week by an obsessive GIRL - Look at me NOT picking up the phone)

This may be my unconscious talking, but I really feel the urge to watch an old western musical comedy starring Bernadette Peters with the killer, um, title.

3h25 PM : Another phone call. Another message.
3h27 PM : Another phone call. This time from a 'private number'
3h45 PM : Another email.

I think the kids & will be going out tonight.

Lobster feast & unexpected courtship

Everything is ready.

Rose & Justin helped me do the shopping and get everything ready for tonight's dinner party. Rose picked out each lobster that would be executed in honour of our guests out of the shop's aquarium; Justin couldn't get over the fact that we were actually counting on eating those creepy looking things. 'Mum...I want chicken, ok? Are you sure you don't want to try sweetie? They taste much more delicious than they look you know! The look on his face told me he wasn't convinced. Chicken it is, then. He was way more interested by the sweets in the near-by counter.

As of now, I'm still working on Justin picking up the mountains of Lego that are scattered on the basement floor. I set up the guest bed as well; Surely Monica & Keith will spend the night. There's no way they will be able to make it back to their place after we empty out all the wine bottles that the guests are sure to bring.

Heads up on the start of my weekeend. Well. I went to a dinner party on Thursday (yes, another one, it is the weekend of dinner parties, apparently) and...kinda met someone. A very charming engineer (yes, just like my ex-husband, Lee, but this one actually has a personnality) from Monaco (European!!!! Hurray!!!) who set up shop in Ottawa, believe it or not. Quite interesting, really : he works for the national defense, flies helicopters, was a war pilot in the Gulf war in the early 90's and spends weekends in the south of France from time to time. GREAT accent :) Hum. We met on Thursday, had a blast, he asked for my number, called me up on Friday morning; Friday evening, he came over to my place with a dozen red roses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other (European men have got it going on, girls, let me tell you) by 11 o'clock we were snogging on my purple couch, and this morning he called me up to find out if I had slept well (like a baby, thank you very much, I said, blushing as I was sipping my coffee) and if I was busy on Sunday evening. Needless to say, I can't keep up with the pace of things. Er...Sunday? Well, er, don't know, let me see...(why is it so easy to bitch about men not calling us girls back when we want it so badly to happen and so difficult to deal with when it does happen?)

Sigh....There are lovely roses on my dinner table....

My guests will be here in a few hours.

Did I mention I invited Arthur?

Mickey & friends set up camp

AARGHHHHHHH!!!! Lord help me!

Yesterday I noticed some strange leaf torn-up bits on my downstairs loo. Strange, I thought. But didn't think twice about it. I cleaned it up, and called it a day.

This morning, there was a rather imposing quantity of dust and broken leaves on the loo....I was puzzled, then...er, thought about it, and slowly lift up my head...I looked at the ceiling above the loo.

Dear God.

There are bits of various stuff coming out of my ceiling fan, you know, the ones you have installed in bathrooms that don't have a window, the ones that have an exterior vent? Looks like there are uninvited guests at my place....and I hate mice with a passion...I can't rationalize it for the life of me, they're so tiny, you know, my mum always said Les ptites bibittes ça mange pas les grosses bibittes (Little critters don't eat the bigger ones) they can't hurt me, I know, but they CREEP ME OUT!!!!!!!! I need help!!!

I wonder if Arthur is busy.

The dinner party

Meanwhile, I decided to organize a little dinner get-together at my place next Saturday. I invited Monica and Keith, my travel-crazy friends from Ottawa, Stéphanie, who shares an office with me at Kopinski & co and her boyfriend Pablo, and Arthur, my neighbor. I also invited the Lieutenant. Thing is, he hasn't confirmed if he'll be there or not. I spoke to him over the phone last Thursday (yes, he eventually returned my call...I am very impatient and get p.o'ed easily when things don't go my way, I'm afraid) to invite him over, and he seemed flattered and somewhat interested to partake. But, and please help me if you have some insight, said that he was 'unsure' if it was the 'appropriate' thing to do.

-Innapropriate? I said. Don't you eat dinner everyday?

-Of course, silly...he replied. I can't talk about it now, really, I'm at work.

-Er...ok then. Well call me when you've made up your mind, then...Looking forward to seeing you again.

-You too. Bye!

-Bye.

So as of now (it's only Monday morning, let's not freak out) he hasn't confirmed his presence for Saturday. And I for one have no idea what he's talking about. I can understand 'I'm busy', 'I have other plans' or even 'I'm not even going to return your phone call that's how much I don't care' But...'It would be nice, I'm not sure if it would be appropriate?'

Don't get it. I must be missing some crucial information.

How to kiss a neighbor

Meet my neighbour, Arthur.

Arthur lives right next door to me. His front door stands about 15 feet away from mine, and once in a while, the postman will leave his Financial Post in my mailbox by mistake. Arthur almost never leaves his house; he works from home, and when he does go out, it's to go across the street to visit Frank & Cathy, the neighbours. Arthur is in his early 40's, and is very handsome, in a 'poète maudit' kind of way. I wouldn't say he's the strong silent type; I think he's more of a suffering silent and recluse type. A poor lonesome Swedish cowboy that wants to be left alone until he figures out where it is exactly he should be heading.

I started to talk to Arthur again not too long ago; I would say a few months, maybe six or seven, even though I've lived here for 2 years now. The first time I ever spoke to him was over the fence from our respective gardens. He was with his wife and I was with fuckface at the time. They were welcoming us to the neighbourhood and offering us cold beer on a hot June day. Fuckface and I had just moved in our new house and were getting acquainted with our new neighbours while the kids were trying out their new bikes. Happier times for Arthur and me.

At first I thought Arthur was one of those redneck Ontarians; didn't strike me as someone I want to put on the list of my favourite people. In the short period of time Fuckface was around, he managed to get into arguments with Arthur for reasons that elude me right now. All I know is I remember my boyfriend saying the neighbour was an asshole, and didn't make anything of it. Turns out, two years after, that Arthur is quite knowledgeable and funny. He has a sarcastic sense of humour, which I love. He doesn't get out much though, or at least he hasn't for the last 2 years anyway. Now, I know all this because I've invited him over a few times for a drink, or for barbecues over the summer. He even helped me out gut my upstairs bathroom when I decided to retile it. I wanted to do it on my own, you know, female power and all, but I hit a wall when it all came down to taking out the old tiles. I was stuck, couldn't do it alone, and was about to cry of despair when I thought of my nice (yet very quiet) neighbour Arthur. Sometimes, it's nice to have a man around the house (not necessarily IN the house, but you know, around it) Especially when you have to smash out a tile floor with a hammer. He was happy to help me, I was forever grateful, and we spent half a day in my tiny bathroom. We wore construction goggles that steamed up every 3 minutes; you can imagine how attractive that made us look. We cracked jokes about 'banging' all day, drank beer and played music really loud. It was a fun day.

Arthur and I both went through very dark periods in our lives at the same time. Two years ago, about two weeks after Fuckface abandoned me in the house we had just bought together to zoom back to England, Arthur's wife collapsed on her basement floor. Just like that. Without warning. Brain clot. She was 38. Now Arthur, who had only known one woman up until then, suddenly became a widower at 40. I can't imagine what he went through. The days that followed the death of Arthur's wife drove me a bit insane; even if I didn't know her very well, I could feel the grief of the family members that reunited in Arthur's house through the walls, and since my own mental state was not too good at the time, I did the only thing I could to save my life. I pretended I didn't know what happened in the house next door. It made me too sad. I couldn't handle more sadness, especially not one of gigantic proportions. Let's just say that on our street corner, at that time, there was a dark cloud hovering above both our houses. I eventually got over mine, but Arthur is still struggling.

Over the past few months, I got to know him better, and grew quite fond of him. I always had a thing for loveable tortured types. Last Friday, I bumped into him as I was taking out the recycling bins. We chatted a bit, and, what the hell, I invited him over to watch a movie later on, when the kids would be asleep. Bring some booze, I said, and a stupid movie. We can just get pissed and laugh at the TV. Sounds like a plan, I'll see you later then, he said.

At 9h30 he knocked on the door, with beer in one hand and School for scoundrels in the other. Perfect, I said. I'll make popcorn, you open the beer.We snuggled up on the couch, watched a bit of the movie, laughed at how bad it was, drank beer, and chatted a little. I talked about how difficult it was to meet sensitive men; he talked about how he had no idea about anything that had to do with dating. He's not ready, he said. He seemed terrified about the whole concept of being with somebody else. I wanted to hug him and to stroke his hair. I told him he should have no problem meeting someone new, he was so attractive, intelligent, and funny. (Attractive, intelligent, and funny....hum....) You know Arthur...I really want to kiss you right now. He looked at me for a few seconds, not too sure about what to answer. It's not a good idea, he said. We're neighbours. Oh, I said. Then we looked at each other for a while. Tell me again why it's not a good idea?

Cabin fever

For some reason, I seem to suffer from cabin fever every September. After all the hoopla resulting from coming back from vacation in Florida, the back to school frenzy (shopping for schol suppplies in crowded Wal-Mart alleys, searching desperatly for the specific notebook Not this one mummy, it's not the right colour-size-length-odour-ingredient content whilst trying to follow a way-too specific list of endless supplies from the school) and the inevitable cleaning out of the wardrobes (clothes now too small/ugly/worn-out for the kids, simply not wearable anymore according to my standards for myself), I streched my autumnal urges as to fixate on buying a new, bigger house for me & the pups. Crazy, you say? That's what my mum thought.

Bridges, penses-y deux minutes!!! Tu vas pas déménager ENCORE juste pour le fun de déménager! Ça a juste PAS D'ALLURE TON AFFAIRE!!!!

(Trans. "Bridges you can't be serious - You're not going to move AGAIN just for the sole purpose of moving! It just doesn't make any sense!!!!)

Well, after looking around and actually meeting up with a few estate agents in the neighborhood and visiting a few houses in my budget range (approximately 1400-1700 sq. ft. and at least 3 bedrooms), I came to the conclusion that Oh my God, mum was, for once, sort of right. Moving would be too much stress on the kids and the difference between my actual house and the one I could potentially buy is very limited. Changing quatre trente-sous pour une piasse (four quarters for a loonie) seems alot of effort for too little benefits. Problem solved. But the urge to start a new domestic project was still lingering...What's a Bridges to do????

Well, I decided to redo my whole bedroom, mind you. I spent the whole weekend painting the walls, my furniture, the trims, everything but the kitchen sink (who has a kitchen sink in their bedroom I ask you) and shopping like a mad woman at IKEA, Rona's, Loblaw's (yes, Loblaw's for home decor, I know, it seems daft) and other various shops around Ottawa for bedding, curtains, paint and miscelleneous decor tidbits. The result is quite pleasing, and quite drastic. I went from a boudoir-looking bedroom with purple walls, dark velour bedspread and golden accents to a fresh, clean looking contemporary bedroom with shiny black furniture, crisp white 4 star hotel quality linens and silvery grey walls.

How's that for cabin fever?

Do I really have to mention that I'm exhausted from my weekend, and that I still have paint in my hair?

The exception that makes the rule

Ran into the lieutenant last night - sigh - we bumped into each other as we were both heading for our favorite bar stool. Rita, a fifty-something Scottish bartender-ess who seems to knows the lieutenant very well, greeted him, then me, and offered him a little taste of a new beer from a freshly hooked up keg. What's it like? I said. He had just emptied his glass; he looked around to see if anyone was looking, then streched out his arm to the beer tap and put a little in his glass for me to taste. Nice, I said, smiling. He inquired about how I was, what I had been up to, chatted a bit about the differences between Montreal & Ottawa, then kissed my Botox-free forehead. We'll meet again here, all right? he said; winked, and went back to his table where his buddies were.

Did I mention he's from Montreal, like me? That he speaks French and English very well, like me?

That he's absolutely gorgeous?

Yep.

Honey pots & misplaced wrinkles

At least once every two years, a woman has to go through considerable hell to set up a necessary pilgrimage to the gynecologist's office. It's not the most pleasant of experiences, in more ways than one. First of all, in Quebec, gynecologists might as well be ghosts. Unfortunately for all of us here, gynecologists are one of many specialized health practitioners who are never available for consultation with their patients, unless you are a) pregnant, and even so you might be turned away; b) suffering from an illness that needs immediate attention, and even so you might be turned away; and c) a relative of said practitioner. Oh, there are a few hanging around; sure, you will find them in the yellow pages and yes, you will find a phone number where you can call their receptionists… but if you actually need to SEE one, say, for prevention purposes or general intentions of well-being, (you utopist fool) sorry dudette, but you will have to wait. This is what happened to me a few weeks ago.

-Bonjour Good morning bureau du Dr. Chose /Dr. So-and-so's office puis-je vous aider can I help you
-Yes, I would like to make an appointment with Dr. So-and-so, I -
-How far are you in your pregnancy?
-Oh, I'm not pregnant, I just need an annual PAP smear and prevention tests...you know... To see if everything is under control in the honey pot area -
- (big sigh of exasperation) We do not accept new patients unless you are 12 weeks pregnant… for follow-ups....you can call Dr. what's-her-face; she will give you an appointment. The number is......

Click.
Try again. Other call at Dr. What's-her-face, different bored overworked receptionist answers.

-Yes, I would like to make an appointment with Dr. What's-her-face for an annual check-up, I...
-Our soonest availability is in March 2009...Would you like me to put your name on the list?
-Er...I’m willing to pay…I just want to have an exam done!
-Sorry…March 2009 is the sooner we have. We might have a cancellation at some point though, but we follow our list of patients –
-How many people on the list, miss?
-Um…
-Never mind.

Click again. March 2009. Enough said.

I'm not even exaggerating. Ask any woman in need of a PAP smear in Quebec, they will all tell you the same thing: gynecologists have become a rare breed indeed. So what's a resourceful Canadian girl to do when the Quebec health care system simply doesn’t work? Well, simple. Hop in her car and drive for hours to jump the fence to Ontario, where gynecologists seem to accept your money and are therefore available for honey pot concerns that don't involve giving birth to another baby. Thank God for that.

So. Yesterday morning, I was on my way to small town Ontario, where a male gynecologist would help me achieve my goal of becoming the true health responsible woman that I am. (At least for today.) I have to say, I did not quite expect this in a gyno’s office.

The Dr.'s office is in a little bungalow, not too far from a reasonably sized regional hospital. The waiting room is furbished with nice leather couches and a big plasma screen. Big difference with public health service doctors where you have to wait on ordinary waiting room chairs. I talk to the receptionist, she tells me to have a seat, the Dr. will be right with me. I sit down and look around. A few artwork pieces representing pregnant woman are lying around. While I was waiting for the Dr. to call my name, a few glowing women with round bellies walked past, some of them alone, some of them with their partners. Anything but normal in a gynecologist's office. I stop looking around and pay attention to the plasma screen. An infomercial-type program was on; it seemed to be the only thing playing on it. On the infomercial, beautiful "older" women were talking about how good they were feeling now, and all of a sudden, video segment, before and after pictures, cue to the woman being lustily looked at in restaurants, at the office. She's happy, she's laughing, she had Botox injections and she's saying, hence the publicity slogan, that she did it "For three good reasons. Me, myself and I". I then noticed a huge cardboard sign in the back of the waiting room. Restylane...define yourself...in 10 by 4 panels...God...you couldn't avoid it...I caught myself looking in a little mirror I have in my purse. Wrinkles. All over my face. I was ghastly. All of a sudden I felt old, very old, and by the obvious looks of it, I needed to be facially depleted. It seemed so simple; an injection here, an injection there, take off years from your face, takes 15 minutes to do, who cares if it costs 350 dollars every 3 to 4 months and that it's made of BACTERIA; you can't put a price on female bliss, no? Every woman should do it, right? Injecting bacteria in your body is a good idea, right? Y’a rien là!

May I remind you that I am in a gynecologist's office, surrounded by pregnant women who are told to avoid everything but the kitchen sink (and I’m sure a soon-to-be published study will prove that indeed, the kitchen sink may cause harm to the unborn fetus) to protect the baby to come? Promoting cosmetology to women who are and will be going through the most body-deforming episode in a few months? Am I the only one who thinks these two "health" services don't quite fit together?

I snapped out of it when the smiling doctor called my name.

In the doctor's office I was quickly brought back to reality. A million things were going through my mind as I was laying on the table, feet in stirrups, trying to ignore the fact that some man I never met was scraping the inside of my cervix with a metal thingy whilst making small talk. Will I die of some new form of mutated STD? (Hypochondriac episode) Why is ovulation still so painful at 35? Why am I still irregular after giving birth twice? (PMS is brutal) Do I want to have my fallopian tube tied-up? (No way am I having another kid, shop is closed, thank you) Do I need to have my dislodged IUD removed? (Good memories. Smile to self) My labia minora was slightly torn because of an incompetent beautician a few weeks ago; still ouch. (That’ll teach me to have a Brazilian bikini wax done in some upper-class spa; go figure) Occasional unprotected sex…oops... (It happens) Oh my god, he's going to tell me how irresponsible I am with my honey pot!

Nope. Instead, he emerges from under the sheet, smiling. Everything seems normal; you will have your results in a few weeks, if anything comes up. Now, about those wrinkles on your forehead - did you know that I also offer cosmetology services - I could make those lines disappear in no time!

There's a fine line between taking care of female bits appropriately - and manipulating vulnerable women into thinking that they need to shed 350 $ to become “hot” again – I can imagine a convention of private enterprise male gynecologists, laughing it up – Listen guys! They have their legs spread out in the open and a metal stick up their &*?%; they’re bound to be attentive! We can push (pardon the pun) our new products in a very convincing manner…Sure - quite the new marketing-to-women twist, no? Pretty efficient, I have to say - your audience is quite captive - I mean - could we be more vulnerable than naked, legs wide-open and in stirrups with somebody scraping our cervix? Why don't you sell me a new car while you're at it dude - and why not - some lipo treatment, a cruise to the islands, new shoes for the kids - At this moment I would agree to whatever you're saying, I'm kinda at your mercy! And I don't like it!

I asked myself this question on the way back home.

Would a woman gynecologist have acted the same?

Meet the lieutenant

Every woman has been through a similar experience. You hang out in a pub, you drink up; a pint of Guinness, a G&T with lots of G, a few laughs and a sense of adventure. Then, the gorgeous man who you've been giving the eye to for the past months finally decides to follow the hints you have been sending oh-so discreetly at first, until you are as discreet as a Harley-Davidson zooming down your street at 7 in the morning. You can no longer be ignored, and there's no turning back. (I should know, it happens to me everyday. Damn bikers.)

Anywho. You get the picture(s).

Last Friday I was having a few pints with my friends at Lieutenant's pump (Hence the title; give me credit for creative character naming, please) When I had my first "real" encounter with the hunkiest, most handsome man I have ever seen walking down the streets of Ottawa. (Well usually when I see him, he is seated at the bar or on the terrace, but let's not get fussy with the details, shall we?) I was having such a good time at the bar with my buddies that I didn't even have time to get nervous or shy away when he came to sit next to me. I was just giddy, and yes, sue me, very flirty. Couldn't help it. He's just so yummy.

The lieutenant is one of those guys who can officially say they have been single all their lives. Behold the hardcore bachelors: early forties (the salt & pepper hair is more peppery than salty at this point) Hot bods (they have time to go to the gym, they have maids and eat out all the time) great careers (here in Ottawa it's usually in the public service or in IT), messy flats (the maid cleans but doesn't pick up stuff, she wouldn't know where to put it anyway), serial monogamists (no kids but a long list of ex-girlfriends, usually now living in a different city or country) and an maxed-out alpha male attitude to turn on any woman in her normally kooky state of mind, i.e. me, Bridges, a sucker for loveable jerks. But I'm working on it.

SO!

As I was walking back to my car on Saturday morning, trying to figure out where the hell did I park that thing, I was wondering...

Do I still respect him?

Oh yeah.

And yes, um, I would respect him again. :)

Scandinavian bliss

There's nothing that I love more than feeling like a queen. Once in a while, to relieve the pressures of my oh-so demanding life of work, writing, single-motherhood and, well, uh-hum my official role as public service Goddess (yes, the kids are gone for three weeks, but I like to play on the self-pity, for dramatic effect) I drive off to the Gatineau's on route 5, up to Chelsea, where lies the Ottawa region's best unkept relaxation secret. There lies a Scandinavian spa called Le Nordik, where you can enjoy a steam bath, a hot tub, a massage by a lovely massage therapist, a piping hot sauna, a nice glass of wine, a goat cheese salad in your bathing suit and a freezing water cascade, not necessarily in that order.

There, I spent close to 5 hours soaking up the salt water, the fresh air and the good company of my friend Selany, a beautiful redhead from Quebec city who is now my new office partner.

This morning, we were both too relaxed to care about anything that went on at the office, and liked it so much that we decided to reiterate our outing, without our bikinis this time : we will be heading out to the outdoor patios on Elgin street later on tonight, and gawk at the gorgeous bodies that walk by, taking there will be any. There might even be a chance that I bump into the lieutenant! Who's he? you might ask...well....

Maybe tomorrow.

What am I, a volunteer call girl?

A few weeks ago, I received an email from an old, shall we say, "flame". I didn't remember who he was at first; our last conversation had taken place over five years ago - so many things had happened in my life since then - his name rang a bell - wait a minute- oh yeah - hey! How are you??? He was basically poking around, checking out how I was, or where I was for that matter, since him & I were mostly "ships in the night" throughout our brief locationship; our dates always occured in Montreal, when I had to participate in some feminist literature seminar or he had to make a presentation at some management workshop. At the time, I was completing my Master's studies in creative writing at UQAM and he was a prominent Quebec public servant, always on the go, always in a hurry. Married with children, of course. You can say it; I'm not proud of it either. But so was I at the time. Hey, don't judge : that was that. People do what they can to save their lives. At the time, it seemed like a good idea.

So. There he is today, asking about me. He's courteous, cheeky. He makes me smile again, and even calls me on my mobile after I unawarily gave him my number. "Hey, are you in Montreal sometimes, I still do business over there once in a while, perhaps we can get together at some point?" Sure, why not, I say. I don't have any bad recollections of that guy, which means maybe I did have a good time with him? It's worth keeping on the back burner, I think to myself. Then, I completely forget about him, until he sends me an email today.

Hi Bridges

I will be in Montreal during the week of July 30th, will you be around?

Hum....a Monday...could work...the kids are on vacation with their father...will go down to Montreal on Sunday, spend the day & evening with Catherine & the girls, then perhaps an evening with Mr. blast from the past and drive back to Ottawa very early in the morning on Tuesday and show up for work at 9am. Feasable. So I tell him "I could be there on Monday if you make it worth my while", thinking, you know, going out on a date, nice restaurant, expensive wine, lovers reunited and all that fun stuff a girl likes to do.

He answers back.

Great! I will be with my son, I just have to drop him off at a soccer day camp and pick him up at four, so I will be available between noon and 3h30. He would find it quite strange for you to be there during the evening, no?

Oh. Guess he's still married then. Er...so...He expects me to drive from Ottawa to Montreal, just to spend 3 and some hours with him in the afternoon after we haven't seen each other in FIVE YEARS??? Let me think about it....No. Thank you. I have better things to do. Then it hits me. That's what I used to do....memory flashes...making myself available for emotionnaly unavailable men at their convenience...Hold it! Recollections of the past slap me in the face, and no, I'm not that girl anymore. I don't even need to be aggressive or offended about it. I just anwer back :

Gee - thanks but no thanks - Something came up, and I will stay in town after all.

Sorry!!

That was easy...his reply came quickly, saying "wow-you sure are a party pooper- it's true it would be more fun to spend an evening together (duh). I will give you a call some other time, ok?

Sure. Do that. Meanwhile, and for a quite a while now, this chick has been calling the shots, and she likes it. I didn't like to be treated like a schedule fluffer then, I don't stand for it now, nor do I make other people feel that way!

Even if it means staying single for the rest of my life. :)

UPDATE : July 16, 2007

Blast from the past :

Bridges - I just read your blog - OK I get it, you will never hear from me again!

ME : Er...ok...what did you get, exactly?

No sex in the city, take II

As I previously mentioned, I spent last weekend in New York City to meet up with a group of American friends I met on the cruise last April. Alas, my doubts were confirmed; my beefcake Latino friend I had so much fun dancing with on the cruise is as sexually ambivalent as I remembered he was. Is he gay? Is he straight? In this world of sexual "anything-goes", when it comes to this dude, nothing goes. Nowhere. He talks like he's straight, but behaves like he's gay; he spent the whole weekend pointing out the hunks walking down the NY streets to me, talking about any gossip he could think of, asking me if I thought so-and-so was gay, gay this, gay that- In other words, either his denial about his sexual orientation is tougher than airport security at JFK, or he knows about it and thinks nobody notices. Plus, I walked around his house in sexy pajamas all weekend, we shared a hotel room - different beds, don't get any ideas - and not that I want to blow my own horn or anything ( although I almost had to - a horny girl's last resort is her own imagination) I'm no Pamela Anderson, BUT I think I can be quite sexy, and let me tell ya - no heterosexual man close to this babe last weekend would have lasted long - especially not in closed quarters like we were - and he did not even ATTEMPT a pass. Not even a glimpse of a hint of an idea of a pass - nothing. Nada. Not that I care; wasn't too concerned in that department, but I am a bit ego-bruised, I have to say. Enough about sex already - that's not what's important here; I didn't travel all the way to the big apple to get laid (really? OK.) but to discover and admire the modern art world's most amazing pieces; now that, my friend, is worth bragging about.

Tell you all about it tomorrow.

One girl, one guy Part IV

As soon as I saw him, I knew there was something there. Catherine introduced me, and my gentleman soldier immediately pulled up a bar stool for me, right next to him, (I was very careful and looked around to see if anybody COULD HAVE been sitting there before, surely I didn't want to step on anybody's open-toe shoes, but I figured, with this man around, trailer-trash blondie wouldn't dare pick up a fight with me) asked me if I wanted a drink, yes, thank you, cranberry-vodka please, and ordered for me. I thought he was quite sexy. He was the rugged type, fair-headed, short beard, and very muscular, with shoulders to make any woman feel secure. I smiled and he did the same. I immediately wanted to snuggle in his arms, and soon enough, we were getting closer to chat, because, you know, the music was so loud, I couldn't hear him, and I just HAD to get closer.

-Bridges. Zhat's a lovely name. Vhat do you do, Bridges?
-Thank you! I'm a translator, from English to French. What about you?
-French! I love French...I think it's similar to German in many vays...My name is Hans...me and Huey here...

I look at Huey. He waves, smiles, and goes back to his conversation with Catherine.

...are army pilots. Ve just finished a two-week training in Cold Lake. Ve're going back to Germany on Monday.

-Oh! Wow. So you have a whole weekend to spend in Montreal?

He smiles at me and looks straight into my eyes. Then he gently pulls the stool (with me on top) closer to him, and whispers in my ear Yes! Vould you like to show me around?

I bite on my straw, take a big sip and smile, whilst lifting an eyebrow.

-I would love to!

And we toast to a night still young.

Two girls (and two German military jet pilots) Part III

Under "Les Beaux Jeudis", there's Thursday's, (yes, I know, it's a fourth day of the week concept, don't need to be a translator to figure that one out) a Montreal institution known for, well, picking up and partying, basically. Yes, some might say that the whole Montreal island serves that purpose, but that bar on Crescent street has been there a long time and has lived up to its reputation. That's where Catherine and I headed after our delicious meal and unbridaled jazz adventure.

We sat at the bar for a few minutes, ordered drinks, chatted, and had a look around. Catherine was on fire; she circled the place a few times sniffing for worthy testosterone only to figure out that it was better for us to go downstairs, where the club is and the dancing takes place. I was happy just to sit there and wait for something to happen, but there we were already, on the dance floor, gettin' jiggy with it. I lost Catherine at some point, and since it was very crowded, tried to find somewhere I could sit. There was an empty stool at the end of one of the bars; about 10 drinks were standing in front of it. I walked over and I sat down, ordered a drink, and basically watched the action. After 10 minutes, somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Some huge-assed blond girl looking like she just walked out of the trailer-thrash makeover salon says to me, in a nasty tone : "Chus r'venue, là!!" (I'm back now!)

I look at her in dismay and, being a little slow from all the cosmos I drank up to this point, don't react, and, silly me, smile, and try to start a conversation with my toosh still on the stool. Big mistake. "Aille - kècé qu'tu comprends pas, esti? chus r'venue, faque dégage - Cé ma place, câlisse!" (Hey - what is it that you don't understand, (insert swear word)? I'm back, so fuck off - it's my place, (insert other swear word) ok?)

Here, see Bridges getting up, off the bar stool, doing a little bow, a cheeky reverence, and replying, in a mocking tone "Madâmeuh, votre banc." (Madam, your stool. (which takes a whole other meaning in English, but let's not go there, even though if I was a nasty girl I would have stuck her face in it. But I'm not. I, ladies & gentlemen, am a LADY. Sometimes.) And left her nagging loudly to her friends about how the stupid girl on HER bench wouldn't get up when SHE said so and how she bravely confronted the menacing intruderess, and you-go-girl! sent her on her way, that bitch, hahahahaha, and gulf down the rest of her beer bottle. I think she burped loudly but maybe that was just my imagination implying so. I could still hear her high-pitched Brossard-accent toned voice through the loud dance music as I was walking away from the potential hazard; and oh, waddaya know, there was Catherine grabbing me by the arm.

"Two German pilots, one cute, for me, the other one with shoulders built for you Bridges - They're buying me a drink - this way!"

German pilots? That's the most interesting subject of the evening. My interest is peeked - where to, my friend?

Two girls, part II

We come up the stairs to "Les Beaux jeudis", where a friend of Catherine's is playing tonight. It's a nice restaurant, not too "chi-chi", the food is good and the jazz is usually top notch. As we walk in, I notice a very handsome man sitting at the bar; he smiles, nods, and I do the same. The maitre D' takes us immediatlely to our table, next to the jazz quartet. The pianist recognizes Catherine, and ackowledges her presence. Our waiter brings us our menus and orders our drinks straight away, just as we are settling down.

-The man at the bar is staring at you.

-I know....

-Are you going to talk to him?

-I'm not getting up; if he wants to talk and he's a gentleman, then, he'll come and say hi. I smiled at him when we got in. He knows I wouldn't mind.

Catherine laughs out loud and hi-fives me.

Throughout dinner, the mysterious guy at the bar and I exchange glances. He remains all the way over there, at the bar, and I stay put. Between sets, the pianist comes to sit with us and has a chat with Catherine; something about "the good ol' days" that I'm absolutely no part of. I'm bored, and I wish Mr. mysterious but somehow glued to his bar stool would come and talk to me.

He doesn't. After exchanging looks for about 1 hour, he pays his bill at the bar, looks at me one last time, and waves good bye. What? That's it??? Oh well. Another one bites the dust, I think. Not too long after the guy leaves, our waiter, a very handsome young black man, who saw the whole scene, comes to me and whispers, looking straight into my eyes, "What an idiot. He is a fool to pass up a beautiful lady like yourself", kisses my hand, takes our plates away, and leaves. I didn't see that one coming, I said to Catherine.

-You never see the good ones, I have to do all the work for you!

-I'm more than happy to let you do the scouting, my dear. I'll just stay here and finish my Cosmo, thank you very much.

Catherine smiles, and I can see she is a woman with a plan. I haven't seen my friend so vibrant in a long time, I have to say. It makes me happy to see her so in tune and I'm ready, yet a bit scared (Catherine is known for pulling stunts in public places that could make headlines in the mondane column, but not to worry) to let her lead. Tonight, I feel a lot more comfortable to follow.