LONDON CALLING

This being my first year back in Vancouver, I should stay put during my two weeks’ vacation this month. Just enjoy sleeping in and not having to take the ferry to work. Besides, I still have no furniture. My living room has a few moving boxes gathering dust and a stool. It’s a sad abode. I should save all my money and finally buy a sofa. Maybe a coffee table and an area rug, too.

Instead, I’m heading to London.

Perhaps that’s one of the perks of living on my own. I don’t have to be sensible. I don’t have to hear someone else whining about what I haven’t done to the place. It’s depressing, sure. Maybe that’s why I’m not sticking around.

I told my mother last night. (We don’t talk much.) She was excited, knowing that I’ve never gone overseas. Still, she wanted me to be vigilant. I braced for her to say something offensive about Muslims and terrorism. (She’s done it before. Again, we don’t talk much.) Instead, she warned me of pickpockets. “Like in Oliver Twist,” she said. “Yes, mother,” I said. “I’ve seen the movie. I know what Fagin looks like.” (She didn’t pick up on my sarcasm. As I said, we don’t talk much.)

Sadly, there’s some truth that the apple doesn’t far from the tree. I may not be any more evolved. My notions of England are from books and movies. The Oscar-winning musical “Oliver Twist” was my favorite movie as a kid, with “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” a close second. Dickens’ Oliver Twist remains my favorite novel. I couldn’t get enough of the Merchant-Ivory movies of the ‘80s, like “A Room with a View”, “Maurice” and “Howards End”. And I loved the Emma Thompson-penned “Sense & Sensibility”. England is a place of singing orphans, candy-concocting Oompa Loompas and very proper folk who dress in period costumes.

Oh, but I have contemporary images, too. England is the land of bumblers, from Mr. Bean to Basil Fawlty, from Mark Darcy of “Bridget Jones’s Diary” to Bridget Jones of, well, you know. And then there’s Hugh Grant in most anything (including “BJD”).

It’s also the land of tennis. Wimbledon. People who play in all-white and snack on strawberries and cream between sets. I may have to pack an extra suitcase just for puffy white shirts and white sportswear. It’s important that I fit in. Nothing worse than standing out as a foreigner.

So let’s just say it would be better if I head to London with no expectations. I have a hunch I’ve got a lot to learn. Let it all begin from one of those obligatory tours on the open deck of a double-decker bus. Hopefully, there will be a stop where I can take a selfie with an Oompa Loompa. And, with a little luck, we’ll be photobombed by Mr. Bean in the midst of an epic pratfall.

This is going to be so much better than sofa shopping!

WAVING FLAGS

Sometimes you date someone and everything feels right. Well, almost right. In the early stages, things are awkward enough as nagging questions trigger insecurities.

Should I have ordered something without garlic?

Is he even going to kiss me?

What if he’s only going out with me so he has something to blog about?!

More questions than answers. That’s part of what makes us a glorious mess on and in between the first dates. But some questions are bigger than others. Sometimes red flags pop up.

Damn flags. They are lovely at the Olympics and in parades. A particular red flag arouses pride if you’re an Albanian or Turkish patriot. But keep those flags away from the already navigationally challenging dates. A red flag screams DANGER. It’s the equivalent to the skull and crossbones on particularly potent household cleaners. Poison.

Game over.

Unless. The ever-hopeful and/or the dating-desperate try to deal with the flags. Yank ‘em. Burn ‘em. Pretend they’re not there.

My most recent attempt at dating revealed two potential red flags. The relationship did a fade-out before I had to deal with them. Alas, they are now only hypothetical reds.

The first flag appeared on our third or fourth date, a lovely movie and dinner evening. The movie had been surprisingly entertaining and our conversation flowed freely at the trendy Italian restaurant in my neighborhood. Matthew had a way of making me laugh and this occasion was no exception. But then he slipped in a stunner. “You should know I’m positive.”

Stupid me. I leaned forward in my chair, waiting for him to finish the sentence. Positive about what? About us?

He repeated himself. “I’ve been positive since 1985. But I’m on meds and undetectable.”

Oh. Okay. Sure.

I’d like to think I was immediately open and accepting. But I’ve never carried off a poker face. Theoretically, I’ve never had a problem with anyone’s HIV status. But this was no longer theoretical. This was real. This was now.

Matthew had more experience with this. Thirty years. Within a few minutes, he excused himself and went to the restroom. It gave me a moment to collect my thoughts. The news was unexpected. But not a deal breaker. I probed further when he returned, allowing him to share his story. “I’m okay with it,” I said. “I’ll just have questions to work through.”

Our dinner conversation moved on to other topics, a mix of getting-to-know-you anecdotes, questioning and humor. Matthew referred to sleep apnea and joked about some sexy apparatus he wore on his head when going to bed. (My mind flashed to Meg Ryan’s Walter in “Sleepless in Seattle”.) Fine. We’d make this amusing. But then he mentioned smoking marijuana as part of his ready-for-bed ritual.

Red flag #2.

When it comes to drugs, I’ve lived a sheltered life. I may be the only adult on the planet who has never tried pot or anything else. Never wanted to. Hate the smell of it. And I like to be in control. I want full and normal brain function. A crossword puzzle is all I need to get mellow. A rerun of “Friends” is sufficient to give me the giggles. (Or this.)

On two subsequent dates, the references to marijuana came up again. I tried not to cringe. I have no desire to spend my time with a pothead. I made the mistake of falling for a cigarette smoker years ago. The nicotine, not me, was what he needed as his first and last breath each day. Any habitual smoking of any kind is a no-go.

So two red flags. Which was the bigger issue?

My friends were divided. Twenty years ago, both flags may have been deal breakers. But maybe not. Knowing someone’s HIV status, one can take the necessary safety precautions. The pot habit will always be an issue.

Not that either flag matters. As Joey from "Friends" would say, it's a moo point. Matthew couldn’t fit me in his schedule. The dating just suddenly stopped. I suppose he had a few red flags of his own.

PERSON TO PERSON

With the rise of social media and phones seemingly affixed to the palm of the hand, alarmists are quick to say that the art of meeting people face-to-face is fading. I don’t know about that. But then I’ve yet to stand on a street corner with a placard proclaiming that the world is ending on a particular date in July. Hell, I didn’t even foresee the end of “American Idol”. But it does seem that dating without any social media impetus is becoming a thing of the past. And this is cause for concern.

Around Valentine’s Day, as the Haves were posting pics of their chocolate and flower haul on Facebook and Instagram, articles popped up on the internet for the Have Nots. The basic message: doom. Dating connections that arise from online dating sites are less likely to endure than relationships that form from introductions orchestrated by friends and family or that develop simply from knowing one another in a common setting. I don’t know if any research was necessary. It makes common sense. And yet more and more people are putting their hopes on websites with a catalog of thumbnail photos of hypothetically single people who are hypothetically seeking a relationship. (You might hypothesize that this writer is a tad jaded.)

I am one of the site seekers. There is no alternative. I cannot recall the last time I had a date that did not arise from a dating website. I’m thinking it was Arnie Jones, a guy from the gym eighteen years ago. We spent six months smiling at each other across the gym floor before my friend John had had enough and made us have an awkward conversation on crowded Denman Street in July. He served as negotiator. Would you two like to go out? Yes! About time. Unfortunately, I was heading to Ontario the next day for an extended summer holiday. Arnie and I got our date at last at the end of August. A lovely dinner and conversation and a commitment to play tennis together next. Unfortunately, there was a circuit party in Vancouver over the Labor Day weekend and Arnie became smitten by a party boy from Chicago. And that was that. My difficulty in landing a second date goes way, way back.

I would love a date that arises from a chance encounter while sizing up bananas at the grocer or that results from being squeezed together during rush hour on Skytrain. It could potentially come from a ride up the elevator in my condominium. There are twenty-eight floors. You’d think there’d be an available guy or two, but no one talks in the elevator. Everyone stares at their phones, the equivalent to invisible electrical fences to keep person-to-person contact at bay. What amuses me is that we don’t get reception in our elevator. It seems there are more socially insecure people than me.

A work colleague could set me up, but my sexuality is never discussed. Everyone knows but I’m the boss in a unionized environment. People only get so close. Perhaps I could be set up with a friend of a friend. Unfortunately, my list of friends has shrunk dramatically and they’ve heard plenty of my dud and thud first dates. It is reasonable to think I am the problem. Why would they wish that on their other friends?

So, as much as I bemoan my online experiences, they are the only realistic option. Chances of success are slim. An internet article even says so! Still, I go through the motions. (Drat. The humorous kale lover on OkCupid has not responded to my message. Apparently bonding over kale quips is a longshot. Now I know.)

Sometimes, I still get hopeful. I haven’t allowed the odds against being published again to deter me from writing and dreaming. I shan’t let the odds push me out of the online dating market either. Sometimes I even buy a lottery ticket. I’m just an against all odds kind of guy.

Or maybe it’s just that I don’t know what else I’d do. That Candy Crush game thingy is out. I don’t even know how to download an app. And, truth be told, I’ve always been a bit afraid of cats. I’d suck at taking up knitting as a hobby.

Sigh.

I log in and slog on.

MACHINE MALFUNCTION

Way back in the answering machine era, I'd get home from work, throw my keys on the table and stare at the device. The more the little red dot blinked, the better. Dinner? A friend calling long distance? Sometimes it was a telemarketer for the Dallas Morning News or, worse, my mother, but Red Blinky meant possibilities. I hated when my machine had nothing to say. No messages left me wondering what I was doing wrong socially. Clearly, I needed better friends.

That same sense of hope used to come whenever I logged in on an online dating site. Oh, please let there be something in my inbox. Mr. Right begins with Mr. Write.

But the newness of online dating faded long ago. The hope has gone. Indeed, as I went through my daily formality of logging in this morning, I saw a message on Plenty of Fish. Immediately, I got that sinking feeling. It is still hypothetically possible that an attractive, intelligent, intriguing man could hit me up with a thoughtfully worded "Hey! Wazzup, dude?" but experience tells me how remote that dream is.

With dread, I clicked on the message and mentally mustered up my new internal message of hope: Please, oh please, don't let this bring me down.

I glanced at the four photos of the smiling individual. One pic was from back in second-grade (“hahaha…just for fun!”) while the others portrayed a fellow purportedly a year older than me who looked like he belonged in my father’s golfing cohort.

Oh, no. Not good. Instead of butterflies, I felt bricks in my belly.

I scrolled back up. Oh, please be a smoker. Easy elimination. It’s him, not me. I’m not shallow; just principled. And health conscious.

Non-smoker. Damn.

In a nod to my supposed openness, I read the full profile. The English teacher in me noted the lack of writing errors—a rare occurrence! RedheadCam sounded swell. Just what I’d expect from a guy raised in Newfoundland. Nothing to connect with but gosh-golly nice. The verdict was clear.

Another pass.

Another fail.

Another reminder of how futile online dating is. I don’t think I’m too picky. I’ve gone on dozens and dozens of coffee dates with online candidates. As I’ve concluded so many times before, Plenty of Fish is not so plentiful. The stock has been picked over. The same goes for the other dating sites. The next coffee seems to be a cup full of grounds.

 

If this is all a game of chance, I’m playing poker with an Old Maid deck.

And so, yes, it's come to this. I'm relieved when I have no messages. Craving Red Blinky is most definitely a thing of the past. Now it is the messages that make me wonder what I’m doing wrong socially. The whole online dating thing is an empty exercise. I'm putting myself out there. Kind of. Sort of. Not really.

EAR-ILY FAMILIAR

I’ve always been weirdly concerned over my body. It’s not just the weight issue. As a kid, I wondered why I was the only one in my family with red hair. (My mind shifted from the horror of Adopted?  to the soothing sense of Adopted! Alas, it was only wishful thinking.) When I was a teen, I asked my parents if I could have plastic surgery. On my elbows. They had the nerve to say no.

Over time, I’ve come to accept my hair and elbows. (I still have a preference for long sleeves.) But there’s always something new to obsess about. And getting older offers new fodder for body self-consciousness.

As I sat on the ferry this morning, I had the misfortune of being behind a man of about seventy who shuffled into his seat and set his ski-pole walking aids to the side. He continuously stared out the window, gazing at the low fog draping the nearby islands. Lovely sight, but from my perspective, the sight wasn’t so. Ear hair. A clump of it.

I get that hair changes with age. It parts from the head and legs while sprouting with renewed vigor in the eyebrows, nose and ears. Forty years ago, maybe people were fine with that. Maybe “grow old gracefully” included let hair grow where it may. But now every hairy sprout comes under scrutiny. What is the purpose of ear hair?

According to Wikipedia, “[m]edical research on the function of ear hair is currently very scarce.” No surprise, really. No doctor wants to be a cocktail party pariah. (“Medical researcher, eh? What are you studying?”) One internet site which seems to be linked to the all-knowing cardiologist Dr. Oz of TV fame recognizes that ear hair growth comes with age and then asserts that “this hair protects you from insects that find the ear canal interesting.” Really? So this is a mutation resulting from bugs’ preference for exploring the ear canals of older men?! Does this mean everyone else is defenseless against ear bugs? Why don’t I feel grateful?

This is the manscaping era. (My word processor still underlines “manscaping” with a squiggly red line, but I think most of us are familiar with the term.) Some of us even take on our own manscaping seriously, perhaps obsessively. I get that there are varying degrees of action/inaction in terms of chest hair and even back hair. I just wonder if we could reach a universal accord related to ear hair. If you see it, trim it.

Perhaps I am the only one who frets over being seen in public with untamed ear hair. The elevator in my condominium happens to have harsh lighting. It’s a good thing though in terms of ear scanning. As the side walls of the elevator are mirrored, it only takes an up close and personal scan for me to spot ear sprouts (and a few missed whiskers from the morning shave). Last week I was stunned to see a 12-millimeter strand of hair poking up from the top of my right ear. Egad! Somehow the thing went from stubble to a full 12 millimeters! That couldn’t have occurred overnight. I’d been walking around, interacting with people in a range of setting for days—weeks!—all the while sporting a defiant ear sprout! Why had no one told me? Can we come up with a rule of etiquette about this? Maybe this is why second dates are hard to come by for me. Maybe this was the source of Van Gogh’s ear issue. The poor man was ahead of his time in terms of art and manscaping. And, well, he overreacted. (It doesn’t help to know that 12 millimeters is nothing on the world stage. As there is a record for everything—and, yes, this very fact proves that—the longest ear hair ever recorded was 13.2 centimeters though it had later grown to 25 centimeters. Apparently Guinness did not bother with an update. Perhaps ear hair growers aren’t all that competitive.)

To be honest, I cannot see the center part of the ear. I let my razor graze over the area once every week or two, but I can’t tell if it’s trimming anything. Will I even know when I have a full clump of ear hair? Do older mean see it and actually choose to ignore it? Do some people actually like ear hair?

Perhaps the more appropriate question is, Am I the only one who dislikes tufts of ear hair, also known as auricular hypertrichosis? Why can’t “ear wax” have a new connotation? I’d pay to have it done. And I think my fellow ferry passengers would be grateful.

A FRIEND OF A FRIEND

I’ll confess: I did it. Desperate times.

Every so often, a Facebook friend shares something from another of his/her friends and, rather than scrolling on, I stop to take notice. Maybe it’s a panda making snow angels. Or it can be a one-minute video for making cinnamon apple rings. But sometimes it is the Friend of a Friend himself. A hottie who updated his profile photo. (Good choice!) On one memorable occasion, it was a shirtless artist, posing beside his latest work. I’m big on art. I had to study the shot. I still have a vague recollection of a tanned six-pack. The art? Well, uh, it was an abstract oil painting with bold use of color. Or, actually, it could have been a bronze bust of a clown. Or macaroni art…seagulls and a sun with a happy face. Oh, but that six-pack!

So there you have it. I’m a Facebook Peeping Tom. It happens. But it’s rare. I don’t have many Friends with chiseled, shirtless macaroni-art Friends.

This morning, it wasn’t a photo that caught my eye. Instead, a Friend shared a Friend’s written post: “So…, glad to have a weekend but I got dumped last night. I knew it coming it was coming [sic]. But I’m still hurting.”

Well, I’m not stupid. I’m single and I can smell opportunity. I clicked on the poor sap’s name and searched for a photo of Mr. Available. More post-dump posts. “I need to dispose of some anger…” “Fuck this…I have experienced a very painful weekend.”

Okay,…so Mr. Almost Available.

We seem to share a love of ellipses. It could be the start of something great.

I peeped on. Finally, photos. Okay,…not my type. Oh, that makes me sound shallow. Let’s just say I realized the error of my gaze.

This is what it’s come to. I’m searching for treasure in a dump-ster.   

REJECTION READJUSTMENT

Something to add to my reading list?

I’m teetering. It could just be ordinary sadness and frustration. And lack of sleep. So what if those things are signs of depression. This time I know the triggers.

Please, let this pass.

Two months ago, I started dating a guy. Two guys, actually. Concurrently, not together. First date, first date. Lo and behold, second date, second date! Seconds seem so hard to come by. Times two?! I started to worry. Too much of a good thing.

Third date, third date. It was almost a relief when one of them said he didn’t feel a spark. Almost.

So I was down to one. I’d shaken off that cheating feeling. More dates. I’m guessing seven. (It’s a good sign when I stop counting. I suppose my math has gotten rusty.) But then the dating stopped. He got busy, I got busy. He got sick, I got sick. And four weeks passed. You can’t call it dating when there are no dates. I’m guessing it’s done.

And so what was momentarily an embarrassment of riches is now a barren landscape once more. Square one. It’s back to the dating sites. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Oh, god. It gets harder each time.

Don’t think about it. Hard not to when the only TV show I watch is “The Bachelor”. I get refueled off watching impossibly beautiful but nonetheless rejected contestants tear up as they part in the rejection limo.

I don’t know what I did wrong!

It seems I’ll never be loved!

I’m ready but no one seems to want me!

Only they usually add in some bleeped-out expletives. These are reality show contestants, after all. I recommend they find Linda Ronstadt’s “When Will I Be Loved” on YouTube and play it ‘til they laugh. Or break their iPhone.  

Yes, I’m solo again. No limo. I have my monthly bus pass.

This has got to be at least part of the reason I booked a trip to London. A trip I can’t afford. It’ll take some budget shuffling. I guess I can go another year without furniture in my living room. I do live alone. I seem to get by with a stool.

So, yes, I’m down. This is a normal reaction. As long as it doesn’t stay. If it goes away in a couple of days, I’m good. I’ve got a trip to focus on. What’s the best time of day to see Big Ben?

Please, don’t let it have anything to do with going off my meds a week ago. I want to be in control on my own. I don’t want to take pills, even if there are no apparent side effects. I want to be okay. I want to handle life’s downturns.

The fact that I’ve only had three hours of sleep compounds the foggy, gloomy brain. The night before the first day of the work week is often a miserable bed-tossing-and-turning exercise. And that slice of Baileys Irish Cream cheesecake before bed didn’t help. Too rich despite going with nonfat ingredients. I nursed my belly with a pillow, rotating it regularly to keep the coolness. Still can’t even think of eating this morning. Maybe it’s the start of the flu.

That would be a good thing. It beat the return of my personal dark cloud.

Hands down. And head up.