Resisting Marriage

It gets said a lot: “Location! Location! Location!” I think it’s original meaning has more to do with things seen on Love it Or List It, but it also has meaning in stand up comedy. (I think.) You technically can do comedy anywhere. But should you? After already enduring “Show Us Your Tits” and “Show Us Your Tits” in a facking comedy club, should I really be pushing my luck?

I’m booking my own shows now. It’s a learning experience, to say the least. Nothing I’m ashamed nor scared to do though. Our country only has so many shows available, so through word of mouth, it’s pretty easy to figure out who’s trust worthy, and who’s not. (But at least pays… eventually.)

So I flew across the country for some gigs. Don’t worry. I didn’t pay for the flight. And neither did my dad, shockingly. I have a curse/lucky streak of being on flights that are over booked, and the airline staff ask for passengers to step off for a voucher and take the next flight. I don’t wanna brag, but I once did this FOUR times in ONE day. I scored FOUR free flights for United. (That’s why I’ve been to Boise, Idaho.) It takes patience, a good book and a special skill of being able to turn your purse into a pillow, but you too can be a poor man’s frequent flyer.

So I decided to turn my free flight into an opportunity to make money. The booker was very excited to have me, and thus, I was excited to put on a good show. I had the option of bringing an opener, but I chose to do something different. One of the perks of booking my own shows, is I get to pick who I work with. Instead of an opener, I brought another headliner, Kathleen McGee. We combined the opener and headliner money, and split it down the middle. I know, I know… I’m Humble Magoo when it comes to cash money. But I’d rather have fun on the road, than make an extra few hundred bucks. (Plus I’ll be able to blast Taylor Swift in the car. SUPER important.)

The booker was amazing to us. What started off as a two show weekend, grew to a four show weekend. But there was this one show….

That was in a strip club. 

At first, I validated the booking by thinking,

“Well, it is Prince George. They probably don’t have a lot of proper venues for stand up. Maybe the other bars in town aren’t open on Wednesdays… Maybe Alicia Keys has played there… At least I know I will be on a real stage, and not a ten-foot piece of elevated wood. I wonder if they’ll have craft beer on tap…”

Plus, if the strippers are as fast as the drag queens with coming up with new numbers, there’s a good chance I’m gonna see a “Shake It Off” routine after my set. The fun thing about working with Kathleen, is I know we are two comics that have a similar philosophy in life:

“When life gives you shit, make shitonade!”

We walk into Alibis, after eating what I might add, was the best salmon supper I’ve had in forever in the adjoining restaurant. And comped! I could get used to this. In comedy clubs, we only get half price. After getting the who's who talk of Prince George, (who should be in jail, but’s not,) Kathleen and I have to figure out who’s going first. We flip for it. I win- or lose. I have to go last. FACK! I’m jealous of her, because these are the sets I’d MUCH rather go first, so I can get off stage and start drinking immediately. Plus, she’s got more dirty material than me, and I always believe solid dirty material should go last. It’s hard to follow.

The booker is also the host, and to his compliment, he actually did bring a crowd who was expecting comedy. That could have been awkward-

“Sorry, gentlemen! You won’t be seeing any boobs tonight! Instead, we bring you… talking ladies!”

The second Kathleen takes the stage, I start video taping. Cuz that’s the world we live in now. We video tape EVERYTHING in search of the next viral video. I thought I was going to make her a STAR that night, but surprisingly, everybody was quite well behaved. Well, some guy did “make it rain” for her immediately. WOW! Do these guys know you don’t have to throw money at comedians? Wait! Let’s start a rumour that you DO! (I always need fives for work.) Kathleen is actually having a fun set. Not as tragic as I thought it would be. And not until I get on stage, will I understand how hard it will be NOT to take a swing or two around the pole. 

I take a shot of Jameson before I hit the stage, as probably most women there do. I take a deep breath, and grab the mic. Wow… If my dad only knew I borrowed his car for this…

I decide to do my set the same way I usually would. I’m doing 40 minutes (or the equivalent of 11 songs, as I explain to the DJ- So yes, you have time for a smoke break.) The way I like to craft my act, is start off with all my clean material, slowly bring them to believe I’m pure, then… BAM! Kinky joke!

I didn’t request a specific intro song, but am quite pleased with the DJ’s decision to go with DJ Kool’s “Let Me Clear My Throat.” That song really brings me back. For all I know, the DJ, IS DJ Kool. With every clean joke I tell, I feel like Michelle Pheiffer in Gangsta’s Paradise. SO educational, you know? (Also, can we start a new saying that goes, “I” before “E,” except after “C-” or Michelle Pheiffer?”) With every big laugh I get, I feel compelled to take a swing around the pole. I gotta say, it really is fun. Maybe some strippers don’t have daddy issues. Maybe they just find the pole to be a grown up slide. Obviously my clothes stayed on, but I was wearing a baggy shirt, so everybody got to see some sweet, sweet, collar bone. 

It was one of those shows where I couldn’t believe I did my FULL time. I thought for sure I’d go running off the stage after 20 minutes, but I prevailed! A comedian success story! Doing your FULL time in a super weird venue is not easy, y’all. We feel pain too, you know. When I finished my set, some man came on stage to clean the floor. (Apparently my Chuck Taylors were a little muddy, and left a mess that was hazardous for the stripper heels.) He didn’t even use a mop. He just skated around with dishcloths stuck to his feet. (A move I know all too well…)

We don’t stay too long after the show. Shockingly, the merch sales and autograph signings don’t take too long. We have a driver take us back to our hotel. (See? Prince George IS classy!) Kathleen and me have one request though…

“Hey, is there any chance you can take us through the McDonalds drive-thru before you drop us off?”

(Canadian entertainers are SUCH divas.)

The driver sighs. 

“Okay. But NO shredded lettuce.”

Kathleen and me look at each other and try to contain our laughter. It seemed like an odd request, but at the end of the day, isn’t he right? It’s his car. And shredded lettuce gets everywhere. In between the seats, on the gears, in your crotch... Shredded lettuce can’t be stopped. It’s like the bed bugs of produce.

We order McChicken meals, but promise we’ll only eat the fries in the car.

The next morning, Kathleen texts me. 

“Just woke up. My bed is covered in shredded lettuce.”

See. This is why the royal baby is named after this town. Such wisdom.

   Using my fingers for things other than rings,

Walkinsauce

P.S. I’d also like to state I ALWAYS get sick after hanging out in strip clubs. Is it possible there are extra germs there?

Remember when trolls were lucky? They were cute little fuzzy haired collectables that you kept on your desk at school, to fulfill superstitions that you might pass a test you didn’t study for. Pink hair, blue hair- I think they even had their own TV show. My friend Kathleen even bought me these troll earrings, either because she knows I used to love these trolls, or because she thinks I’m super tacky.

As I’ve already mentioned, I have a deep fear of YouTube. A real problem seeing as how I’m a comedian, and the whole world goes there to check me out. I CAN’T handle the comments. They are painful. And even though I know it’s one of the Four Agreements, “Don’t take it personal,” it totally hurts.  

I don’t like drama. I’ve never been a good arguer. I consider myself very diplomatic. I can always see both sides. Maybe that’s why I stick to self-deprecating jokes. If you’re a hater, it’s my way of beating you to the punch. In general, I don’t like debating. I don’t have full faith I’m right about anything. I remember in high school, I was selected to be part of the Grade 10 Debate. It was a debate where four students would argue against another four students on a selected topic, to be performed in front of the whole school. I wanted to keep the event light and fluffy. I opted for: “Chunky Soup: Fork or Spoon?” (It seemed like a loaded question, as per all the commercials we couldn’t fast forward through back then.) Unfortunately, I was out voted. The debate went to euthanasia.

So up until this point, I’ve been a coward with internet hate. I block people on Twitter, and in general I completely avoid YouTube. My mentality has always been, “Why should I learn to deal with hate? Why can’t others just learn not to hate?” (I’m SUCH an idealist, eh?) My friend Steph Guthrie has an AMAZING Ted Talks called “The Problem With “Don’t Feed The Trolls.” She makes a far more powerful argument than I do, and I suggest you watch it. (Hopefully I know how to post links right, cuz this is it.) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_KHEkR5yb9A

So this week, I’ve decided to face the trolls. I asked people on Facebook to send me mean comments they’ve received, and I will attempt to put a positive spin on them, and/or defend your honour. Here we go:

YouTube commenter:

“I bet she has some meaty beef curtains.”

Christina’s Positive Spin:

He probably doesn’t have a lot he can bet. Maybe a stamp collection from 1987, a comic book or two, his mom’s underwear... And to be fair, beef is delicious and everyone needs curtains. Especially at sunrise when you’re hungover. 

YouTube Commenter:

Is that a laugh machine? Sounds like a sit come in the 60s.

Christina’s Positive Spin:

Hey, don’t bring Canadian TV into this. Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Also, what’s a “sit come?” Interesting how these “critics” manage to show their level of intelligence.

YouTube commenter:

Oh yah baby… you can squirt cum over me anytime. Puddles everywhere. Yum Yum.

Christina’s Positive Spin:

Who needs a positive spin on this one? YOU ARE IN, BUDDY. (Something tells me it’s C.O.D. though.)

  So after an interesting session sorting through my friends’ trolls, I decided it was time to face my own.  

I got a mean message via tumblr during my Tinder blog. He/she (Internet haters REALLY don’t want you to know who they are, eh? I can’t even decipher gender) wrote,

You’re fucking annoying.

Well, that’s not very nice. Usually I just ignore/block Internet meanies, but this one, I decided to respond:

Then why are you reading this? Go find something you like, ya facking idiot!

(Even when responding to trolls, I feel the need to utilize italics.)

When my blogs got featured on the Huffington Post, I was terrified of the comments. One of the first “burns” I got was:

“What is this? Miley Cyrus’s diary?”

Well… Have I got news for you. One woman’s insult, is another woman’s compliment. I’ll take it!

But now it’s time for me to face my real fear… my YouTube comments. Of course all my clips are super old, because I’m too scared of the site. The worst part of these trolls is that they have the power to shut a creative person down. At least it does for me. I don’t want to share half the stuff I think of. I have scripts that just sit in my computer. I have sets I’ve never put on YouTube. What's the point? People are just gonna hate it all. I’m a total weeny.

I quickly drop a shot of Strawberry vodka in my glass of sparkling water, swallow that and my pride, and go seek out my haters. Are you ready?

YouTube Commenter:

“This bitch sucks. I’m pissed. I was watching the brilliant Russell Peters and then clicked on this lame-wade. You wasted my time. Go back to comedy 101, although I doubt it will help. You monotonous bitch.”

Wow. It’s everything I thought it would be and more. There’s lots of nice comments too, but guess which one I focus on? Positive spin…? There’s a link to me on Russell Peters’ page? Ouch. Who takes all this time to write and spread such hatred? Oh yeah. Somebody with no real name, nor real face. Since I’m currently trying to dive into the world of standing up to bullies, I decide to write a reply.

“Cool. You sound like a real winner! Do you have a real name? A real face? Why are you hiding from your own words?”

Then I went to bed. I’m not going to lose sleep over internet hate. (Though I probably will have nightmares over it.) When I woke up in the morning, I saw the craziest thing on my computer. Someone ELSE stood up for me! Somebody I don’t even know. He wrote a reply to her slander.

Check THAT out! It's an INTERNET MIRACLE! This guy is a true hero. I actually want to BE this guy. I immediately start looking up my comedian friends on YouTube. I’m going to do for other comics, what this guy did for me. I’ve spent all morning throwing positive feedback on clips. I want to be your troll, but a cute, fuzzy lucky one, like the toy. (Emphasis on the fuzzy these days.) My next move will be updating my Yelp page. I’ve told so many businesses I’d write nice things about them, but currently the only review I have up is on this mean yoga studio who kicked me out for drinking coffee before class. (A COFFEE! It’s not like I walked in with a flask.) Isn’t it weird how we’re more prone to resort to the Internet when we’re angry, rather than when we’re pleased?

I’d like to start a revolution. I doubt that’s in my power, but maybe, just maybe, we can take a little time to write something positive about a person or place today. Don’t let the trolls win. I’ve already overplayed “Shake It Off” obvi, so my new anthem to kick the haters is Kiesza’s “No Enemiesz.” You should blast it right now.

FACK! I can’t be a cheesy person, eh? But like a 60s sit come, there aren’t not many of us left.

   Using my fingers for things other than rings,

There’s an 85% chance I’m too old to still be chasing my dreams. I’m 35, I’m still a server, and my pay in comedy varies from $500 to a drink ticket. It’s cool to be a loser in your 20’s, but in your 30’s? I’m not so sure…  

In the grand scheme of things, being a bartender has proven to be far more lucrative than anything creative. But how can you express the wonders of a vibrator to a man reading the paper, trying to enjoy his Kilkenny and a French Onion Soup?

You just can’t.

I’ve recently started wondering why some people quit comedy. I’m sure we’ve all had our moments. There’s no occupation immune from the idea of an employee saying, “Fuck it. I’m out.” Not even your dream job. I feel like doing comedy is like going to the gym. Sometimes you dread going, but after you go, you feel sooooooooooooo good.

So why do people quit comedy? Some do, you know. The highs of being a comedian are incredible. Amazing. But the lows of being a comedian can be painfully tragic. I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.

I started doing comedy a week before my 19th birthday. I was young, optimistic, and fearless. Pretty much the opposite of what I am now. I went on stage in heels, (well, they were platforms-it was the late 90’s) and wore see-through shirts. (But those shirts were only see through from the ribs down, cuz again, it was the late 90’s.) I had three minutes of solid comedy. (I thought I had five, but really, I had three.)

Back then, I honestly believed my comedy had everything to do with writing. I had no concept of all the other variables. I had stage presence, probably from acing so many oral book reports as a kid. But I never took into account other things. Like how long the nachos take… Is the server nice? Who do I have to follow? Why is the last Wednesday of every month smoke-free? (K, now you know I’m old.) In fact, back then, when I was a comedy virgin, I always thought it was the best to follow someone who killed. After all, didn’t he/she just warm up the crowd for you? Now for whatever reason, some comedians prefer to follow a stinker. Revive the crowd. (Hopefully.) 

Back then, I admired so many comedians. Comics who don’t do comedy anymore. That’s crazy to me. I have heros who sort of gave up. Obviously my blog last week was emotional. Why am I in a business full of people I can’t trust? I know it’s not the money. And it’s not the fame, cuz I still work at Fionn MacCools. But young or old, I still have this fantasy of being a modern day Lucille Ball- Cute… imperfect… but it just works.

So I started creeping my retired comedian friends. A “Where Are They Now” show, but the Canadian Comedy Edition. The first person who came to mind, was the first comic I ever dated. (Ya, I’ve dated comics. They tell you not to, but you just can't help it.) 

His name is Marcus Rummery. He was hilarious. When I first met him, I didn’t even know he was a comedian. There were ZERO open mics in Ottawa back then, so every amateur comic got two Wednesdays a month at the comedy club. He was always hanging out at the comedy club, even when he wasn’t on the show, so I just thought he was a groupy. Then one Wednesday, we were BOTH on the show. I discovered he was hilarious. I will still quote his jokes today, cuz they’re just that good. (The foreigners not grasping the enormity of Canada bit still kills. I’m laughing right now, and I’m typing at a Firkin by myself. They probably think I’m crazy.)

So I wrote him. What’s going on these days?!! And guess what? He teaches YOGA now. (Yeah, way to get flexible AFTER we break up.) I can definitely understand how yoga would be the most therapeutic comedy after life. I asked him why he doesn’t do comedy anymore. He said,

“I still do one show a year…”

Haha. That’s a show I’d go to.

Then I wrote one of my other fave comics from my first years doing comedy. Rob Cowley. Ya know him? Doubt it. We grew up in a pre-YouTube world. But I remember my mentality when I first did comedy. When I called the comedy club, I was advised to come watch a show, before I tried it. So I went down on a Wednesday. I made an agreement with myself that I didn’t expect to be funnier than everyone on the show. But if I thought I could be funnier than one person on the show, I’d try stand-up comedy. 

Rob Cowley was not that person. He was my favourite. He had a joke about the giant check even my friends today still talk about. And now… he doesn’t do comedy. Why? He was great! So I found him on Facebook, as we do these days. I asked him why he doesn’t do comedy anymore. His response:

“I stopped mainly because of the community. I moved to Toronto early on. I really loved the Ottawa scene (where we started.) I was one of the first of our community to move to Toronto, and it was pretty lonely and soul destroying. I did the amateur nights at Yuks and did Spirits a few times (which was fun. I enjoyed it) But I just stopped… enjoying it. I also felt like the level of ego that came with the lower density of actual talent (compared to Ottawa) was hard to handle and just tiring.”

I get it. Often one’s confidence, trumps his material. I remember the first time I waited in line at the Laugh Factory in LA to do my first ever open mic there. I spent hours sitting against the wall, getting an intense sunburn, and listening to a dozen comics be "on" all day. They all seemed way funnier than me. But then we got on stage… yikes.

Rob went on to fret that he might not make sense, and feel free to use all of it, or none of it, which just verifies that he’s still a true comedian. Another interesting thing he said:

“I probably would have stayed in it longer, had I come later, when more of us were in Toronto…”

It’s a great point. You need friends in comedy. You need them on the outside, and you definitely need them on the inside. Nobody quite understands a comedian like another comedian. Rob moved before any of us had the balls to. I know other comics who moved to Toronto from Ottawa, and felt desolate while here too. All proof, that Toronto is Canadian New York! (With a slightly better bed bug record.) 

I was at a show last night, trying out new material. I asked some other comics if they cared to sound off on the idea of quitting comedy. Kristeen Von Hagen said,

“I can suggest a few people who I’d like to quit comedy.”

Jeff Elliot said,

“Well, I see a lot of people quit writing comedy. But they keep doing it… 

Yikes. That’s a good one. Some nights, I fear that’s me. Nothing embarrasses me more than going up in front of a room full of comics and doing old jokes. You have classics, that the crowd will for sure love, but the comics in the back of the room won’t respect you unless you take some chances. My peers are probably my biggest motivators. 

Which brings me to Mark Forward. He’s a friend of mine, and he publicly quit comedy a few years ago. (Don’t worry. He’s back.) In an article the Toronto Star published he said,

“Lately for whatever reason- global warming, North Korea, or maybe it’s Justin Bieber- I have lost the love of performing. People don’t seem to show up to comedy clubs just wanting to laugh. They show up with a “make me laugh” attitude. Cellphones are left on. Texting is rampant in the front row, and done with an arrogance suggesting it is their right.”

Mark later goes on to say that he finds it hard to continue his routine with belching drunken men in the crowd, but I fear one of those belches might have been mine.

I think about quitting comedy all the time. It’s quite terrifying. If I didn’t start it so young, there’s no way I would take it up today. I’m too tender. I barely got my act together for an Aeroplan card. And as much as my boss at my restaurant job probably looks at my availability and thinks,

“Jesus Christ! Just QUIT already.”

I can’t. I'm too scared. It's my crutch. I'd love to take the "Leap of Faith," but I'm terrified. What if I fail? What if I have no money? Plus, I’m actually a great server. A lot of people curse the day job. I go there thinking,

“This is so much easier than comedy...”

(Except for the lady at table 22 who keeps complaining her steak isn’t well done enough. Who likes a well-done steak? And why do you constantly threaten to NEVER come back, but then ALWAYS come back?)

Plus, I really like everyone I work with. As much as they steal my pens, I do consider them family. (To be fair, I stay in a lot of hotels. I get more free pens than them.)

So while I always consider quitting comedy, I just can’t. I love it, even though it scares the shit out of me. Jen Grant always makes fun of me when I freak out before a TV taping. This is my dream. I should be enjoying the successes. Not fearing them. I guess if I wanted to have babies that would be an easy reason to quit, but I don't want to have facking babies! Comedy is my baby. (It cries a lot.)

K, I could babble on about comedy all day, so lemme wrap this up. (It's garbage day, and you know how excited I get for garbage day.)

My boss at the pub (industry legend, Greg Garson) told me this when I turned 30:

"In your 20's you're trying to figure out what you want to do in life. 

By 30, you know. 

By 40, you're doing it."

Guys. I still have time.

I think the key to this business might just be, 

Keep going...

Using my fingers for things other than rings,

Walkinsauce

I recently discovered my “other” message box on Facebook. Did you know you have an “other” box? I always assumed I only had one box. I was wrong. And what I found in there is now consuming me.

As some of you remember, a year ago I got fired from Casino Niagara, after some very sexual heckling. After enduring a night of men chanting,

“Show Us Your Tits!”

and

“Show Us Your Bush!”

I complained to the manager, asking why she didn’t do anything. (We get memos from Casino Niagara telling us NOT to speak back to the crowd, among a dozen other memos.) The audience is mostly people who have been comped free tickets after losing mass amounts of money, then allowed to heavily drink, so that more gambling will occur after the show. As a girl with her Smart Serve, I’m well aware of what over served patrons look like. When I complained, the female employee said,

“Sorry. I thought you liked it.”

Obviously I didn’t like it. Who would? I’m terrible at standing up for myself, but I managed to choke up something, which inevitably got me banned from the club. (blog.walkinsauce.com if you want to read the whole story.) The blog ended up going viral. It was a huge lesson in how the Internet works. It was actually kind of scary. Usually I get excited to see that little @Connect button light up on Twitter. But after my xojane.com article posted, I was overwhelmed. It was terrifying how many eyes were on me- and for such a negative experience. I turned off my phone and went to sleep at 1:00pm. I never expected my big break to be a scandal.

I never mentioned it publically before, but I have emails saved from the night after that show. (Well, I use the word “saved” loosely. I’m the kind of girl that leaves thousands of emails in my inbox. I’m super disorganized like that. Also, deleting emails seems easier on your phone than on your computer, eh?) The manager was taken aback about my concerns. Apparently I didn’t seem “rattled” enough while I was on stage. But she also admitted that she’s still trying to figure out “what comedians like, and don’t like.” Well, comedians aren’t big fans of hecklers in general, but we can deal with them if you let us. One of my favourite thoughts on the subject was what Dean Blundell said when I did his show.

“Christina, that was NOT heckling. Heckling is “You suck!” or “Get off the stage!” What you endured was sexual harassment.”

He’s right. And that’s a fight I should have fought harder for.

Through that whole episode, I was never completely honest. I always said that Yuk Yuk’s was not to blame in all this. I was scared to lose my gigs in their clubs. Nothing means more to comics than stage time. And even though I only make somewhere between $250- $600 a month via the company, I still need that money. (I blame my expensive taste in cheese.) But now that I’ve stumbled upon all these old messages, and discover how many people actually cared about me, and tried to reached me through my own agency, I’m upset again. I protected the company so that I would still have a job. But now I discover they blocked me from all this support. I’m a real life idiot, you guys. The truth is…

They were never on my side.

Before I ever blogged about the incident, I made it a Facebook status update. It got 100’s of comments. I had never had anything that serious on my wall before. Usually my statuses pertain to seeing how long I can go without a shower, or asking if any tall people wanna come over and change my lightbulbs. When my boss at Yuk Yuk’s caught wind of my update, I got a phone call from him. I was scared. I knew I was in trouble.

“I’m going to incorporate a new clause in my contracts where comics aren’t allowed to post about the company on their social media.”

For those of you who don’t know, we all have to sign exclusivity contracts when we sign with the company. This sites that we’re not allowed to take any work outside the company. They can’t possibly give us all enough work to live, but we all sign it, because we want the stage time. And then we all keep second jobs, or live below the poverty line. (If I was smarter, I’d know if this is actually legal.)

When my blog hit the interweb, the response was powerful. It’s weird when you think the way you’re treated is normal, post about it publicly, then learn it’s NOT! People were mad. It wasn’t long til I got a call from my boss. He was furious. Not at the casino, but at me, for speaking out. He yelled at me. The casino had been getting phone calls about my blog, and was now mad at Yuk Yuk’s. I get it. Everyone in Casino Niagara commercials are having the BEST TIME! In reality, most people leave wondering if they saved enough money for parking. (Also in my “other” box: TONS of messages from ex-employees of the casino, confirming they were treated as shitty as me.) Well, I guess Yuk Yuk’s and Casinos have something in common: Profit trumps human rights.

My boss is raging. He yells into the phone:

“I can’t afford to lose that club! They pay their bills on time! I’m not on your side! I’m on the casino’s side! I don’t care about comics! I care about money!”

I was so scared. I burst out crying. I never meant to “bite the hand that feeds you” or whatever that cliche is. He went on to tell me a story I know many comics have heard over the years.

“Lemme tell you a story. Once upon a time, back in the 80’s a comic asked me for a raise. He said, “But they’re all coming to see ME!” So I taught him a lesson. I went to a graveyard, and found a dead guy’s name. I took it, put it on the marquee that night, and the club was STILL packed. People don’t come to see a specific comedian. People come for the Yuk Yuk’s brand.”

At the time I couldn’t disagree. Who am I? Nobody. Nobody really knew who I was. In fact, one of the saddest facts of being a comedian is that a lot of people leave the comedy club, having loved the show, but never remember your name.

Then he put his 3-year old son on the phone for me to talk to. When my conversation with the toddler was over, he reminded me that he has to make money to put food on the table for his family.

“You better hope this doesn’t go to the press.”

My heart was pounding in fear.

I.WAS.BALL-LESS.

It did hit the press. Obvi. I tiptoed through the local radio and TV stations that managed to reach me. (NOBODY reached me through my agents. Nice to pay people commission to be hidden from the world, eh?) I praised Yuk Yuk’s for not being the bad guy in this. Were they ever by my side in any of these interviews? Never. They didn’t want to ruin their relations with the casino. But I never wanted to say anything bad about them, because I didn’t want to lose my gigs in Mississauga next month. (The manager there, Dom is awesome. He actually cares about comedy.)

I did everything I could to appease my boss. We both prayed the attention over this issue would go away. I have this weak habit in life of not fixing problems. I just learn how to use broken things.

I finally left Yuk Yuk’s a year later. I sent an amicable letter quitting. I wasn’t mean. I am greatful for all the growing I did on their stages. But a year after my “Show Us Your Tits, Show Us Your Bush” night, with no support from the man’s name above that logo, I felt gross. I couldn’t tell jokes under that brand for one more minute. I’m actually embarrassed I stayed that long. I had been selling my soul, for the bargain price of $125 a show.

I actually can’t believe I’m writing this. I’ve been called out for having a “fear of being hated.” It’s true. I get along with everybody, possibly even people I shouldn’t. I never read the comments on anything I do. Everything on my YouTube page was posted by others. (I’m terrified of YouTube, cuz in my opinion, that’s where Internet hate goes to soar.) I ditched this wordpress site after the incident. I was too scared to see what people were saying, so I started a new blog on Tumblr, where people can only hit little heart buttons. (Phew!) And because so many of my friends still work for Yuk Yuk’s, I feel bad speaking out against the club. I know these comics really want work. Stage time to a comic is a drug. I get it. Plus, some clubs are actually ran well. Howard Wagman in Ottawa has brewed some of the best comics in the biz- Jon Dore, Jeremy Hotz, Harland Williams- (Is this a tacky time to mention this was MY first comedy club ever? How can I NOT be nostalgic of moments I had on that stage? One of my friends recently said, “I wish I could quit Yuk Yuk’s, but NOT Ottawa.”) The only reason I’m speaking out now is because I found multiple messages in my “other” box, asking me to be on Joy Behar’s show. Joy Behar!! She’s my facking hero! I love her. When I finally wrote the dude back, he wrote,

“We tried sooo hard to get you.”

Due to the exclusivity contract I had with Yuk Yuk’s, everyone should contact them to connect with me. It’s the way business is done as an entertainer. In fact, I would get in trouble if I booked a gig without going through them. But they didn’t want the press. And I never knew Joy Behar cared until now. (Though in my heart, I knew she cared! I willed her to find my story, and apparently she did.) These days the most attention I get from a celebrity is when Patti Stanger responds to my tweets.) There’s something I learned about myself this week. You can underpay me, you can send me shitty places, you can even control me… but if I find out you blocked me from meeting Joy Behar? Well…

Now I’m pissed.

When I find myself having regrets in life, I like to picture myself as Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors. Sure, maybe if I had been less of a coward last year, I’d be cooler right now… Maybe more successful… Maybe not still the owner of a three-legged couch. (I didn’t even get compensated for the $500 I lost that weekend.) But I have to convince myself that making any other moves back then would have lead me to being short haired Gwyneth. (And you DON’T want to end up short-haired Gwyneth. Trust me. I won’t mention any spoiler alert thingys, but come on people. The movie’s from 1998. You should have seen it by now.)

I often think back to that evening on the phone with my boss.

“I have to put food on the table to feed my family!”

I may be single, no kids, no fancy house… but guess what?

I have a table too.

Good riddance, Yuk Yuk’s,

Christina Walkinshaw

Christinawalkinshaw.com

I was 17 the first time I ever went to a bar. (Don’t tell my parents.) It was the nightclub across the street from my part-time job at McDonalds, called Cheers. It was nothing like the T.V. show, unless you wanted to call all those male strippers they had on ladies night, “Woody’s.” All the cool swing managers would go there after work, and as a team player, I was eager to join them.* My fake I.D. was not actually fake, it just wasn’t me. It was another blonde co-worker who smiled SO hard in her picture, you could barely see her eyes. (I can pull off that look, obvi.) Plus, she was a Gemini, which I feel like I can pass for.

That first step into the bar, pass the bouncer is a very exciting moment in your life. I wish I had a picture, but it’s not exactly the kind of night your parents stop you at the front door to take pictures for the family album. The bar is empty, because you have no idea that it’s not cool to get there at 8:30. It smells of booze and that weird smoky stuff they blow onto the dance floor. (Probably to cover up the smell of farts.) As terrifying as it might seem for you to imagine your teenaged daughter at “da club,” you’d be shocked at how responsible we can be. I barely drank any alcohol. Not because it was illegal for me to do so, but because:

I had no idea what to order. Thus far, my only experience with drinking was a four pack of BC Growers Peach Coolers. I didn’t think that was the kind of order that says, “I’m legal,” so I just refrained. (Back then I didn’t even like beer. Can you BELIEVE there was such a time?)

My McDonalds paycheck would not last long in a drinkers world. I had other expenses, like ESPRIT shirts, and my own phone line in my room I had to pay for.

The bartender’s boobs were at least 8 times bigger than mine, and I would undoubtedly stare at them WAY too long anytime I got near the bar.

My only intention going to bars so young was to dance. I may not have been good at it, but I loved it. There was only one thing that scared the shit out of me back then. Other women. They were intimidating. They glared. They danced better than me, and if at any moment I accidentally invaded their dancing space, they would not hesitate in a bump from behind that cried, “Get the fuck out of my way.”

I went to a bar for the first time in forever on Saturday night. My Saturday nights are usually reserved for doing shows, but this week I ditched it to see what’s up in the normal Saturday night world. Oh, and when I say “bar” I mean “place where you dance.” I obviously go to pubs regularly. That’s more my speed. Nobody dances at my local, unless maybe you win a round of Golden Tee, and decide to do a swift victory dance. I guess I could use the word “club,” but that makes it sound like I’m on the corner of Peter and Richmond St. (I can’t.)

When I step into a crowded bar, all these memories of mean girls flood back into my brain. Even the time a girl threw a drink on my back. I was too scared to stop and confront her, so I just kept on walking. I pretended I didn’t feel it. (Even though I was wearing a halter-top, so obviously I felt it.) I was so embarrassed, I didn’t even tell my friends it happened until I was much drunker. The fear of the Queen Bee’s sting always lurked in my twenties. But tonight, something much different is in the air. These strange women who I don’t know, are nice.

As we step into The Ossington (don’t wanna brag, but I still get ID’d,) we pay our very reasonable cover of $5. Instead of getting one of those stamps on your hands that I often don’t wash off for a good 24 hours, the girl draws a little smiley face on my wrist. We make our way over to grab a drink. The bartender looks more like somebody I would be friends with, than a porn star. (So no, I did not stare at her boobs all night.)

We hit the dance floor. It still scares me going out there. My friend Ronit is a great dancer, so luckily she steals focus my “squats to the beat” moves. I notice so many differences from my years at Cheers. First of all, it is way easier to dance to “Bombs Over Baghdad” in Chuck Taylor’s. I don’t know what I was doing in heels all those years. The guy wearing a shirt with the Loblaws logo on it, is obviously ordering a round of Bud Lights. The floor is still sticky as fack. I keep stepping on fallen garnishes. I fear more vodka is landing on my shoes than my mouth. I notice guys love flirting with girls in hats. Trust me on this. Eventually they will take it off your head and put it on their own. Even if it’s pink. (John Corbett once stole my pink Clipper hat and tried to wear it all night. I had to fight him to get it back.)

But here’s the cool observation that I really want to get at. The chicks on the dance floor were cool. Friendly. Warm. One girl even tried to hug us when we hit the dance floor. (K, she might have been high, but I appreciate the warm greeting.) In the bathroom, we all talk to each other as if we know each other for five minutes of our lives. We joke about where we’re going to wipe our wet hands once they run out of paper towels. It’s also notable that this is my first time hanging out with Ronit, my new friend from at adult camp. It’s nice to hang with new cool chicks, especially since I have a way of telling my regular besties the same story 80 times.

I feel like women are really coming together. It’s nice to see this evolution, where women have gone from being catty and hostile to each other, to friendly and kind. Nobody threw a drink on my back. (Maybe a few accidental splashes, but they came with a “Oh I’m SO sorry!! Did I get you?”) I love the rise of feminism, of us all being equals with men, but I’m also enlightened by this notion that we’re all equals with each other. We are not, in fact, in competition. We are teammates. We are sisters. We are- FACK! I’m getting cheesy. I’ll stop. In short I’ll just say, I’m always trying to figure out what’s going on in the world around me. Tonight, I liked what I saw.

At the end of night, Ronit yells out of the cab to a girl we were just talking to.

“You’re beautiful!!!!”

That’s the kind of heckling I want to see more of.

    Using my fingers for things other than rings,

Walkinsauce

*Is working at McDonalds as a teenager still cool? Cuz I SWEAR it was cool when I was young. I felt bad for my two friends who couldn’t get hired and had to settle for jobs at A&W.

P.S. Oh and one more observation from my night in “da club.” You’d be surprised how many people still really like Ja Rule.

(I tried to put the word "politely" in italics but it wouldn't let me. Damn title games here on Tumblr I guess.)

(Also, I should probably never start a blog with brackets, eh?)

I’m a real weirdo, you know that right? All this dating, and I’m actually happier on my own. It’s hard to explain that to someone. Imagine being the girl who gets up after sex and leaves. (Not that I’ve had sex lately. I have a powerful ingrown hair right now that’s taken over my underwear region. I’ve named him “Kuato.”) Anyways, what happens when people learn all about your grossness, and still want to be with you? And then you need to drop the biggest bomb of all.

I don’t want a relationship.

It’s easy to assume that every woman is in search of “the one.” I am a new form of weirdo who enjoys my life alone. I’m in the comfort zone with myself. I am not in search of my soulmate. But I am in search of the perfect baked wing. (I need to cut back on my deep fried foods.)

I live by myself, and I facking love it. If you’ve never lived alone, you gotta try it. I’m allowed to live however I want. It’s amazing. I recently pushed all my couches back against my walls and permanently have my yoga mat in front of my TV so I can meditate to Rogers Galaxy Radio. (The adult pop channel, obvi.) I keep garbage in the fridge so it doesn’t stink up my apartment prior to garbage day. I have framed posters of both Kesha and Taylor Swift on my walls. I think I’m up to 67 Eco-bags, all of which are randomly hanging on every doorknob in my apartment. My vacuum is barely bigger than my vibrator. I flush my toilet once every three times I use it. Who wants me now?

I’ve had a few very special, awesome relationships in my life. How those guys ever put up with me is a wonder. (I do keep a good supply of beer in the fridge.) But at this point in my life, where my #1 goal is working on my career in comedy and writing, I can’t rock the boat with the distraction of love. It’s why I chose Tinder over EHarmony.

I remember seeing India Arie in concert Riverside, California in 2006. In between Heart of the Matter and Wings of Forgiveness, she said, “Love is the blessing. But relationships are the work.” (And then tears were shed by me and hundreds of black women.) I tend to agree with India. Even when I’m in a super healthy relationship, I always worry about things that I shouldn’t. I can’t help it. With infidelity all around you, it’s mystical sometimes to believe that you’ve somehow dodged it. Being single, I’m totally carefree. It’s liberating. So when I enter into a relationship, I have to like that person more than I like being single. Which is a LOT. Plain and simple. If I see any signs of needy behaviour from someone, I run faster than any trainer could ever encourage. If I make out with you, instead of texting me and immediately wanting to know,

“Where this is going?”

I would rather a text like,

“Hey, just passed a guy with a solid jew fro and it reminded me of your bing bang.”

K, I’m obviously not speaking for all women here, but that’s what I would rather.

And just because we’re “single” doesn’t mean we’re “alone.” Far from it. These days, it’s almost impossible to feel alone. Even if you’re at home by yourself, is it possible to actually feel “lonely?” You got Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tinder, Snapchat, Netflix… wow. There’s a lot to do when you’re “alone.” If you’re like me, you’ll “take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while.”* If I have a moment where I truly feel alone, I love it. I do meditate for real. You probably don’t expect that from a girl who drinks four days a week. (K, sometimes five.) But I need it. It’s so peaceful. (Until somebody blares the car horn out your window. Also, it’s a good reminder I need to clean underneath my couches more often.)

So this is the creepy little life I’ve made for myself. Though it’s far from perfect, I love it. I have a shitload of great friends who never make me “alone.” And yes, I may go out with you, bond about life, kiss you… but at the end of the day… I gotta be on my own. It’s a dorky term, and I would like to come up with a new one, but I guess I really am a “free spirit.”

Clooney’s out. I’m still in.

xoxo, (but NO commitment please)

walkinsauce 

*That’s a line from my favourite Billy Joel song, Vienna! Hence why the phone reference is a little dated. As an update, I recommend just putting your phone on airplane mode. That way you can still listen to your Billy Joel collection.

Okay, I know I was Slacker Magoo last week, and I apologize for that. I’d love to tell you I was SO busy with JFL42 that I didn’t have ANY time to write a blog, but I’ll be honest- I had time. I just used it for watching The Good Wife on Netflix, and introducing my friend Laura to Sex and the City. (Can you believe she’s 30 and has NEVER seen an episode? That’s NOT right. Somebody had to do something.) 

But this week I’m back, in full affect/effect. You pick.  Where we last left off, I was making out with a dude that is fresh off the relationship boat. And as you can imagine, he’s currently re-learning how to date. Obvi, I want to do the best I can to help him, as well as anyone else who’s going through the same thing. I know a break-up with someone after ten years can seem tragic at first, but you really need to be open minded about the giant space of life that sits between the present and death. (Sorry I brought up death.) I’ve already defied a Ouija board from 1993 by not getting married at 23, like it told me I would. (To somebody whose name starts with an “R,” apparently. I’m pretty sure it was just my friends pushing the Ouija board towards the R because I had a crush on a guy named Randy. Very kind of them, but it gave me false hope for years. Thanks a lot, “friends.”)

So here I am, texting with this 39-year-old man who never expected to be single again. In a weird way, it’s telling a lot about his previous relationship. It’s also awkward for me, because he keeps trying to call me, and I don’t like to talk on the phone. He needs to know people don't talk on the phone anymore. We're all texts. I’m sorry, but 78% of my day I’m around people. I refuse to talk on the phone in front of friends. Or people in general. I don’t even like to pick up the phone at Starbucks. I feel bad for those people too. (Not that texting is any more polite, but I burp in public. Manners aren’t my forte. I’m trying, people.) I’ll text you the second I decline your call though. That’s nice, right?

His first confession is the funniest.

“I have a confession to make. I looked you up on the Internet. I tried to resist… i kinda feel dirty that i looked u up… feels strange… it’s like oh hey guys here’s the girl I met last night....”

I really like his use of the dot dot dots… It’s the preferred form of most of my tweets.

“Haha! That’s totally normal, dude. Don’t feel creepy. Everybody does that in 2014, even if they don’t admit it. Even people interested in somebody who’s not in the entertainment business. I was serving these two ladies the other day and I heard one say to the other, “You have to look him up on LinkedIn. He’s the real deal.”

Then I profusely apologized for never updating my YouTube page. I just get scared to go on there, cuz that’s where the real Internet haters live. Blog World seems a little safer, cuz you have read thousands of words to quote something you hate. I don’t think those “commenters” have the patience or brain power for that. (But really, I should update my YouTube page.)

So once we get over this hump that it’s okay to Google someone after you meet them, (and I am quite Googleable. To a fault. He probably thinks he will never see my tits and/or bush.*)

Now there’s my next order of business. He keeps calling me “baby.” I know he’s not trying to offend me, but this feels weird to me. I don’t mean to channel that Madison Avenue one hit wonder, “Don’t Call Me Baby.” (Remember that jam? It’s on Platinum Hits 2000.) I hope he’s not trying to possess me already. We’ve only just met. I think maybe he’s just on auto-pilot from his last relationship. My instincts tell me that he probably always called his ex “baby,” and now he’s accidentally calling me the same thing. Well, this gets a full blown “TOO SOON.” I don’t feel comfortable being called “Baby.” I’m not Francis Houseman.

I totally understand the roll over habits from your last relationship. I have a confession make. I have given not one, but TWO ex-boyfriends the nick name “Cute & Dreamy.” I’m not proud of this, but to be fair, they were BOTH very cute and very dreamy. I clearly remember the second boyfriend calling it out, too. He asked if I used this name for another boyfriend, and I denied it at the time. Alas, he was right. I recycled this exact nickname. I’M SORRY! (But to be fair, I’m probably the only person in the world to call a man this. It should be tolerable to use it twice if such a gentleman is willing to respond to it.)

“Baby” is starting to look pretty good, eh?

And now on to my third, and final order of business, into the man fresh off the boat. And this one honestly made me laugh my head off. He wished me good luck for a show, then I wrote back,

“Thanks!” With this emoji….

  (It’s my favourite emoji. I don’t know why, but I use it all the time.)

Then he wrote back,

“Hmmmm… which face is that one? I don’t have that one on my phone.”

Also, at this point my phone was on the charger in my room, and I was on my old man Lazy-Boy recliner writing. Let it be known, that when I write, my phone MUST be far away from me, as I’m easily distracted. (Which I’m sure you might guess.) When I regroup with my phone, I see he’s called multiple times. Ugh. I already told him, I don’t talk on the phone. He calls again. I pick up. (I had to. The only thing I do less than answer a phone call, is check my voicemail.) 

Upon answering the phone call, I discover that he thought I was mad at him. I asked him,

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Well, I didn’t know what the girl with the hands crossed across her face meant. I thought maybe you were mad at me, and you didn't return my text, so I got scared and called.”

Oh for FACKS sake! You wishing me good luck on a show doesn’t warrant anger. And just cuz I don't text you right back doesn't mean I don't like you, it just means I'm busy. Do you think this means he's coming out of a volatile relationship where he was always getting in trouble? (Though to be fair, I have no idea what this Emoji is really supposed to mean either. I just thought she’s a bad dancer, like me.) Cell phones and social media have made us all too available to each other. But there are times in the day where we all put it away, right? Like at work, the gym, the bathroom…? (Okay, maybe not the bathroom. But do you really want me to respond from a toilet anyway? This is how poop related Snapchats happen.) Let’s not freak out when someone doesn't have time to text you every five seconds.

I got some messages from dude readers a few weeks ago, when I posted my last blog. They all really liked what this guy said about coming out of a ten year relationship. It's the reason I chose to write about theses quirky interactions this week. Clearly I'm a pro at being single. I wanna help. So this is just a friendly reminder, when you meet someone new, start fresh. Don’t bring your paranoia and insecurities from your last relationship. I’m not trying to mean. Just honest. Relax. Be yourself, even if it’s a 35 year-old girl who finally had to turn an ingrown hair over to her doctor. (K, now I’m talking about me, obvi.) Just saying, there’s nothing more embarrassing about your life, that I can’t match with mine.

These are just a few, very specific tips to the newly single I wanted to share with you. Please don't call me Baby. (Kreesha Turner also has a song called that, in case you'd rather the CanCon version. Clearly I'm not alone here.) Also, I’m sorry if my Emoji’s confuse you. We can get through this together. And finally, I’m sorry if I don’t write back fast enough. I’m alive, and well. In fact, if you're lucky, I might just be in the shower...

Using my fingers for things other than rings,

walkinsauce:)

*Did ya get that reference? If you didn't, you gotta Google me.

Throughout my bagillion Tinder dates, one thing was for sure- my married friends were super jealous. No, they don’t want to cheat on their loved ones, but they definitely lived vicariously through me. And it’s a shame- just because you’re married/in a relationship, doesn’t mean you should miss out on meeting weirdos from the Internet.

So when two married dudes who are buddies with my comedian friend Johnny Gardhouse decided to start a website for people to meet new people- in a non-kinky way, I was intrigued. After all, I didn’t put out on most of those Tinder dates anyway. I might as well try “friend dating” so nobody expects a beej at the end of the night. Even some of the guys I met on Tinder expressed a need to meet new platonic friends. A lot of their friends are married with kids now, and can’t just fly out the door to meet for a beer. Going out requires a good week’s notice and a babysitter recommendation. One guy just moved to town, and doesn't feel comfortable getting hammered in front of his co-workers yet. But where do you go on the internet to just find something platonic? Facebook is good for keeping in touch with friends you already have, online dating sites are great for the single people, so these guys created a website for when you just want to do something with someone. Not kinky. It’s called FriendshipDNA.com. And while the letters “DNA” remind me of C.S.I. Miami, I was still super curious who I was going to meet on the site.

When you start an account, you do a personality test. (Don’t worry. I passed.) (Is that someone’s old hacky joke? I apologize if it is.) I filled out tons of questions about myself, something I haven’t done since Cosmo quizzes as a teenager. Here’s my personality report, y’all:

Personality Type: Diplomat

Friendship Type: Trusted Star

Communication Type: Peacemaker

Values & Attitudes Type: People Pleaser

(All of these titles obviously have full descriptions on the site, but I don’t want to babble anymore than I already do. I got a twist ending to this blog, and I can’t wait to get there.)

So I finally score a friend date with a girl I’m a 90% match with. I’m assuming the 10% we’re missing is the part where I think it’s socially acceptable to talk about diarrhea and in-grown hairs on your bing bang in public. She invites me to come drink with her and her softball team after their game Monday night. (Hence why I’m posting on Wednesday, and not Tuesday. Monday night is usually writing night, obvi:) I’m excited she didn’t ask me to play baseball, though. I was one of those kids who always played the outfield and prayed to God the ball never came my way.

I’m excited for my friend date, even though it’s at The Badger and Firkin in Etobicoke. There’s so many wordy street names out there. I keep stuttering every time I try to say “Burnhamthorpe.” I will pass approximately seven other Firkins, on the way to this Firkin, but at least my new friend has confirmed it’s totally cool to show up looking like shit. I’m still wearing yesterday’s make-up from the Canadian Comedy Awards. I’m in yoga pants, t-shirt, messy bun- wait! I look like that facking picture up there! That’s why I posted it, obvi. Ooopsies. I forgot. (I also don’t know why I posed in front of Pottery Barn Kids. I have no business there.)

I walk into the Badger, making sure to observe all the specials on the chalkboard so I don’t have to ask my server to repeat them. I make my way through the bar, where I see a long table full of chicks, and two dudes. One of the chicks pipes up,

“Hey, are you looking for Kelly?”

Phew! Yes I am! They invite me to sit down, since she’s not there yet. The girl across from me recognizes me. Her and her boyfriend saw me do comedy on their first date. Cute! My date arrives, and I give her a hug. The table has already ordered two plates of nachos. It’s like they knew I was coming.

My date is tall, blonde, super cool- guys, you should be jealous. I might be better at meeting women than some dudes. The table is a combo of single, married and in relationship peeps. Some people meet “the one” through a mutual friend, so meeting new people can still be a gateway to some sex, right? I learn a lot at the table. Like how you can also meet a lot of weirdos on Kijiji, and Michael Strahan is single now. (How did I not know this? I LOVE Michael Strahan! Do you know how much old lady TV I watch in the morning? He’s so charming.) We all share snacks, drink beer and bond about life in general. It doesn’t feel weird at all. Plus, it was nice knowing I didn’t have to shave my legs (or anything) for this night out.

It finally comes time for me to break my seal. I walk around to the washrooms, and suddenly my single girl, hot guy radar turns on. There are two BABES sitting at the bar. I can’t help but over hear their conversation.

“Is it too soon for a mid-life crisis?”

Oh man. Do I want to eavesdrop the shit out of this convo. Why are there always hotties out on the nights I leave the house looking like ass? And on a Monday night too. Who expects anything to happen on a Monday?

I walk back to my table and tell the girls about the babes at the bar. My date is married, but she’s more than happy to move to the bar and play wingman for me. AMAZING! Now if only she could beam me to a shower and back. We walk up to the bar, and stand awkwardly, checking out the dudes. Finally, they sense our creepy eyes on them, and invite us to sit down. (Well, that was easy.)

We explain to the boys that we’re on a friend date right now. Our first date. They think it’s cute. I ask them what brings them to the bar on a Monday night.

“Life.”

Good answer. I begin to bond with Babe #1. He’s just got out of a TEN YEAR RELATIONSHIP. HOLY FACK! That’s longer than all my relationships combined. I can’t even begin to understand what he feels like. Here’s what he says:

“Well, you’re 1/3 sad… you’re 1/3 mad… and 1/3 excited.”

Well put. It’s not long before my friend date notices my new real date. She confirms he IS a babe, and even the bartender gives me her stamp of approval, saying he’s a nice guy. So far, the only thing I can find wrong with him is that he hasn’t seen Annie Hall. (But I haven’t seen Star Wars, so he’s found something equally wrong with me.) My friend date tells me I should definitely stay and hang out with him. I totally want to, obvi. What a good wingman/wingwoman. (Whatever you call it.) 

So now my friend date has morphed into a romantic date. A date that ended with a giant make out session, AND we’re going out again. Half my Tinder dates didn't even end like this. Isn’t that interesting? I usually never go out on Mondays. You know I NEVER go to Etobicoke. And thanks to my new friend, I got thrown into another universe for the night. A little twist of fate. And as you know by my love for the movie Serendipity, I'm a BIG fan of fate. So maybe the only thing we really need, is a website that simply gets us out of the house.

  Using my fingers for things other than rings,

(Well, maybe I won’t need my fingers if this guy works out. I’ll keep you posted.)

After a hefty streak of striking out, I figure it’s time to give my dreams of feeding my bing bang a break. I’ll get back to it, I’m sure, but right now, I just wanna have fun. There’s so few days of summer left, and I really need to maximize my tan so that yellow looks good on me right through the fall. (After that, I turn pasty, and have to return to my best colour, royal blue.) So I decide to use the powers that be. That’s right. Facebook.

I post a status:

“If anyone wants to take me to a cottage this weekend, I won’t stop you…”

And guess what? It worked. I got multiple responses! Ask, and you shall receive. I get this message from my friend Michelle. Well, to be honest, five days ago, she was probably more of an acquaintance- but a cool acquaintance I wished I knew better. I’m sure everybody has somebody like that in his/her life. She throws the perfect chance for bonding time at me. She invites me to ADULT CAMP!

Yes. Adult Camp. I never knew there was such a thing either. Let me clarify- this is not a camp where you go to learn how to be an adult (though I’m sure I need that camp too.) This is a camp where you can escape the city, and do all the things you did as a kid, but in your 20’s. (Or 30’s, as per me.)

I was too busy all summer to hit a cottage (nor can I afford one, obvi) so I check out the link she sends me – Two Islands Weekend Camp for Grown-Ups. Holy Fack! It looks awesome! A lake, canoes, kayaking, a water slide, paddleboats, yoga, ziplining, AND beer! I’m IN! Plus, I never went to camp as a kid. The closest my family got to camping was the Motel 6 in Grants Pass, Oregon. So for this weekend, I’m basically picturing the scenery of Camp Crystal Lake, minus Jason Voorhees. (Hopefully.)

As per any cottage-like adventure, the drive out of the city is the hardest part. The DVP alone is the reason somebody put the shotgun on the emoji pad. I’m sure of it. Both Michelle, and our driver are from Vancouver, so I know I’m going to take in some Surrey jokes. They insist they’re actually calling me “Siri,” though, cuz I’m navigating. They also point out that somebody in North Delta (that’s where I grew up) has the postal code that spells “vagina.” (V4G-1N4.) How have I never heard this before? I thought me and my friends from high school were the biggest pervs I knew? These are the exciting things you learn when you hang out with girls from West Van and Richmond. The car is full of laughter, and we’re only on Rosedale Valley road. A solid start to the weekend.

We arrive in Haliburton, at Camp Timberlane hours later. I actually get this nervous feeling, like most kids probably get when they go to camp. I don’t know anybody here. I hope people don’t think I’m a tool. I also hope nobody counts how many showers I take all weekend. (None.)

After checking into our adorable two-person cabin, we head up the main hall. There’s St-Ambroise beer, Rosewood VEGAN wine, Black Fly coolers, and Caesars made with Walters Caesar mix- an all-natural Clamato alternative. (I know we all need Caesars for our hangovers, but Clamato juice is loaded with MSG. I’m all about finding healthier alternatives to my lush lifestyle.) This is definitely NOT kids camp anymore. I grab an IPA, and head over to the table with the chips on it. Even if nobody talks to me, I can eat chips to look busy. As I hang, a girl comes up to me.

“Do you have a blog?”

What? YES! Oh my God! This is the most exciting moment of my life. (I believe this is what is called "Fangirling," a new concept I facking love.) Somebody recognizes me from my blog! And a great ice breaker. Message to kids- have a blog before you go to camp. I now have a new friend, and I couldn’t be more stoked. (Plus this will back me off the chips for a while.) 

The food is definitely NOT like kid camp either. Obviously because we’re dealing with an adult crowd, we have a dozen different diets options. (When I signed up for the camp, under dietary restrictions I wrote: None. I eat whatever I want, then worry about it later.) There’s vegetarian, vegan, kosher, gluten-free, organic- there’s even coconut water! Facking coconut water at camp! Kale Caesar salad too. Check out my supper plate. Delish.

  The night turns into a powerful dance party. Girls everywhere, dancing in the most comfortable clothes and shoes you’ve ever seen. Not your normal club scene. The only time a guy comes on to the dance floor, it’s only to clean up one of the drinks we spilled. I’m not gonna lie- I’m still a little stiff. If your moves on the dance floor reflect your moves in the bedroom, I can see why a lot of people would think I starfish. My new friend (Ronit) and Michelle are killing it on the dance floor. Who would have thought I would be taking dance lessons from a West Van girl?

Day 2 of camp is more of the same. Games, scavenger hunts (check out me and Michelle’s rendition of “Cups” on her Instagram @queenwestgirl – I personally think we nailed it, no matter how drunk we were.) As an adult, I notice I’m a much more patient S’more maker. I’m no longer in a hurry to roast my marshmallow. I keep it high above the flame, until it’s a soft brown, unlike when I was a kid and usually lit it on fire and had to blow it out.

  Perhaps the most powerful moment of the weekend, was when one girl got her tooth knocked out during a game of Capture the Flag. She went to the hospital, and came right back to camp, laughing it off. She had the best attitude I’ve EVER seen. I think of how much I let little things bother me on a daily basis, and this girl loses a facking TOOTH and is like “Oh well.” It was a real eye opener. At the end of the day, we should all just be happy we have our teeth.

I made a ton of new friends this weekend. It’s weird- making new besties in your 30’s is actually probably harder than finding a date. But with lifestyle changes, moving cities, having kids, or having no kids, there is definitely an opening for new, non-kinky relationships in our lives. Most websites focus on finding love online (okay, maybe sex too, as per Tinder.) But there’s not a big selection of websites to just find somebody to shoot the shit with. As I said earlier, at the beginning of the weekend, Michelle and I were more like friendly acquaintances. Now, we talk openly about our bowel movements. (How I LIKE my friendships, yo.) I feel like I made a new BFF, as cornball as it sounds.

  I think we all need a little more adult camp in our lives. We need to forget daily stress, internet haters, shoes that give us blisters, and go act like kids again. Oh, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pack condoms for the weekend. Did I use them? Nope. But I did get drunk enough to wonder if I could turn one into a Diva Cup.

  Using my fingers for things other than rings,

Walkinsauce.

I had three chances to get laid last week, and I’ll be honest- I really wanted to. I can tell, because I have three types of shower gel in my shower. One that smells like a Laura Ashley dress converted to an aroma, (good to use before a trip to Grandma’s house,) one that I only use because I got it for free, so there’s no sense in buying more soap until it’s gone, and one that smells like Raspberry AND Vanilla combined! It’s so delish. I know I want to get laid when I hop in to the shower and use that one. (Or if I hop in the shower at all.)

Obviously last week was a super bust. I think my bing bang started to build a fence around itself after that date. And I did meet up with an ex-Tinder a few days ago- I won’t tell you which one, but I can confirm he still looks like Steve Burton from General Hospital. But we’re definitely just buddies. It’s not kinky. However, I also had a date with an old friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in ages. I’m not really sure if it was technically a date, but we definitely locked down plans to grab drinks together. I was really looking forward to it. We actually slept together a long time ago, so in the back of my mind I thought, “well… we’re both currently single… so it could happen again…” Plus, the bonus of sleeping with someone you’ve already slept with is that your numbers don’t go up. It’s a repeat offense. Deluxe. 

The “date” occurred as most Toronto “dates” do. Two people walking through the city, one pushing his/her bike, while the other person reminisces about the bike they recently had stolen. We stop at a few Bloordale bars. (Bloordale- The new Queen West.) The catch up session is going good. We discuss being single, give each other advice on what would improve our “singlehood,” all the while dropping signals that we don’t mean with each other, obvi.

We take a seat at Northwood, one of my favourite spots in the hood. Sometimes I even write there, cuz the table in the back left corner has an outlet under it. The beers are good and hoppy. My favourite kind. My “date” is flirting with the bartender, which is fine, cuz technically, this is not a date. She drops the “B” bomb, subtly bringing up the fact that she is happily taken. He still gives her his card.

Now that I am for sure friend-zoned, I’m happy to get on with normal, platonic friend bonding stuff. I begin to babble, about my horny, yet epic fail of a week. 

“I’m telling you, there’s a certain time of the month that women are horny. We can’t control it. It’s not the time of the month we’re best known for, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same time of the month chicks trying to get pregnant are really givin ‘er, ya know? It’s those middle days, right in the middle of your cycle. One week you’re fine, going to bed with Netflix as usual, the next, you wonder if it’s possible to sit on a doorknob. It’s so weird.”

And that’s when he said that one sentence that no girl wants to hear…

“That’s cuz you’re a whore.”

It hits me like a stun gun. The word paralyzes me… I guess I get it… I get why you might call me that. I don’t always make perfect choices in my personal life. I’ve been on over 50 Tinder dates in the last year and I obviously didn’t shy away from telling everyone. And I know I have a perverted sense of humour, that maybe invites people to think I can handle being called this word, but I can’t…

I have no idea how to respond to this statement… (Accusation?) I figure I have three options:

Laugh it off. Maybe use proper Improv skills by “yes, and…” -ing him. “Yah, and keep your eyes open for my new show Whoreders!”

Get super defensive.

Never hang out with someone who calls me this again.

But if you’ve ever seen me do improv, you know I can actually stutter in the moment. I’m not always sure I’m saying the right thing. So in my most earnest Elle Woods voice, I respond with,

“Umm… I don’t really think I am. I know I went out with a billion guys last year, but I barely slept with any of them, and the dudes I slept with are actually awesome. I’m quite proud of them… And just because I talk about sex openly, possibly all the time, possibly too much, doesn’t make me a whore… at least I think...”

“I was just kidding!”

Oh… that was just a joke… of course. I’m just a comedian, who’s used to being surrounded by people who write such brilliant stuff, I’m hysterically laughing. Now you come along, impairing me with this vision that people see me as a disposable vessel for a man’s penis. But to you, that’s a joke...

I don’t really know why the word Whore hurts so much, but it just does. Theres other words like it, but they don’t bother me. My friends and I growing up used to call each other sluts all the time. We were all hard-core virgins at the time, so it didn’t really make any sense. Just the thought of sex made us giggle to death. My friend Tania even remodeled a Barbie and named her “Slut It Up” Barbie. Then she gave it to my cousin for Christmas. We laughed our asses off, plus we finally found a good reason to tease Barbie’s hair. Then you got skank, hussy, ho, cum guzzler…  I hate to say it, but I can handle those ones. If I had my choice of sexually active female catcalls, I’d personally go with “Floozy.” I like that one. Kind of sounds cute, like I didn’t mean to do it. Even “Hoochy Mama” has its catchiness. (Thank you, Seinfeld.)

But Whore? I can’t… Sorry. That’s just me.

I googled “Whore,” just to be sure “Woman who loves Taylor Swift, fancy cheese, and only makes minimum payments on credit card bills, who would ideally like to have sex at least once a month” didn’t pop up. (Cuz then I’d be in trouble.) But this is what popped up:

Whore

/ho^r/     

(K, that little accent circonflexe thingy is supposed to go on top of  the “o”                     but I can’t figure out how to get it there with my keyboard.)

noun derogatory

1. a prostitute.                                  

synonyms: work as a prostitute, sell one's body, sell oneself, on the streets

I don't wanna burst his bubble, but I've never even sold jewelry on the streets. Great. Now we have women who don’t know the definition of “feminist,” we have men who don’t know the definition of “whore.” How are we ever going to perfect our compliments/insults if we can’t grasp simple English? No wonder everybody at work looks confused when I call them, “Dildos.” (I’m calling you PLEASURE PIECES, MY LOVES!)

Don't worry. I didn't start crying and run out of the bar. (I had a full beer.) We continued onwards with the night, but when we ran into my date's friends, I decide to make my exit. I make an excuse that I can’t drink more because I have to bike home. (A bike can be your best wingman. Plus he’s super fun to ride at the end of the night.)

When I arrive home, he texts me his address. He wants me to come over for “fun times.”

I politely decline.

Something weird happened. I got asked out- in real life. A dude walked up to me (well, he was serving me, so it was sort of his job) and asked for my number. I was so thrown off. No swiping right or left, no texting to give me time to think of something witty to write back… It was just me, sitting, looking at my friend Amanda with total confusion.

“Uhhhhhh, what?”

But since I’m like Carla from The Chew, a big believer in the “Power of Yes,” I said,

“Sure. Why not?”

Cuz why not? This guy is cute, Australian, and works in the service industry, so he's probably a power drinker. Plus, I haven’t got laid in forever. I need to start checking out some options.

I don’t know how I got a dude I barely know to take me to the CNE (The EX- whatever you like to call it.) That’s a pretty lengthy first date, but I figure if he thinks I suck, or I think he sucks, at least we have all the carnies to keep us entertained. As it turns out, we’re neighbours, so we meet on the corner by my house to start off the date. (Neighbours- even more booty call potential. Woot Woot!)

We decide to stop at Paupers on the way to the Bathurst Streetcar. As we walk up the three staircases to the rooftop patio, he pokes his finger into my right butt cheek. It’s a little early for touching my bum, but he’s Australian- they’re fast movers. Maybe they want to get the most out of their visas. The accent works as a chick magnet. Not on ME, of course. I need to be impressed by what you say, not how it sounds. (Just kidding. I lost my virginity to an accent. They facking work, eh?)

The bar is rammed, and I can tell the bartender is in the weeds. We sit at a bar. He orders a Creemore. I order a cider. My date pipes up at my drink choice.

“Cider makes your vagina stink.”

Wow. This just in, folks. Cider makes your bing bang smell? And while I can’t trust that this man is the king of facts, nothing’s gonna resonate in my brain more EVERY TIME I order a cider, than what this man just said. And I really like cider in the summer. I wonder if you can cut the stinkiness in half by ordering a Black Velvet?

“You know what- I’ll have a Creemore instead.”

Alright. He wins this round. Maybe later I can convince him cotton candy makes your ding dong shrink.

My date quickly proves he is not shy, nor hiding anything.

“I’ve slept with 50 girls in the last year.”

Wow. And didn’t blog about it? What a waste…

“I’ve slept with 200 since I’ve been in Canada.”

Holy FACK! It’s just an accent. How is this guy scoring with so many chicks? And do I really want to be #201? Do I dare ask how many chicks he’s been with in total? Yikes. I know numbers shouldn’t matter if you really like someone, but I just got tested for everything under the sun. I have my test results posted on my fridge like a perfect report card. Are there extra-strength condoms, for a dude like this?

He burps. I don’t react. Can I? I’m a burper too. Not that I’m ready to bust out mine yet. We’re still on the first drink. His burps are more that low tone, bubbly, Grandpa kind. Mine are more like an Opera singer, coming straight from the diaphragm. Still, I feel like this burp (and the others he will continuously do all day) is the universe's way of showing me what I look like... Yikes. Sorry, y'all.

We head over to the streetcar. As we head down Bathurst, on our baller transportation, he hollers at people on the street. Dear lord. We’re the ones on the TTC. I wouldn’t get too cocky…

At the gate to enter the EX, he by passes the ticket sales.

“Dude, we have to get a ticket first.”

“No, follow me." 

He pulls me over to the entrance, where he tries to convince the employee that we’re part of some VIP function inside. Right, cuz VIP’s are taking day trips to ride the Zipper. I stand there, embarrassed, and give the employee an apologetic look. When we get denied the free entrance he was hoping for, we walk over to the booth and buy tickets. We then enter the fairgrounds, with our heads lowered in shame. (Well, mine at least.)

We hit the food building first. Time to eat like a carny. My fave. In the building he starts walking up to random people, trying to steal food right off their plates. Some people think he’s charming, and allow him. Others are disgusted, and bark at him,

“EXCUSE ME!”

This is getting embarrassing. And on top of his fry stealing, he also motioned for a guy to throw his football at him. When the guy finally decides to throw it, my date ducks, to purposely miss catching it, landing the football dangerously close to a woman holding her baby. My jaw drops in shock. What a facking idiot! This was the point of the date where I ran to the bathroom and tweeted,

“Can I go back to Tinder now?”

My date can sense my irritation. Finally.

“I’m annoying you, aren’t I?”

“Umm… this is your date too. You get to act however you like…”

God damnit! Why do I have to be so nice all the time!? Why can’t I just lose my shit and say, 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” *

Oh ya… cuz I’m a total weeny…

“I just thought because you’re a comedian, you’d like that I was being funny.”

Oh for facks sake. First of all, this is NOT funny to me. I didn’t expect my date to turn into an impromptu episode of Punk’d… And just because I’m a comedian doesn’t mean I want to turn every moment of my life into a joke.

“Umm… I am a comedian, but I’m not one of those comedians who’s “on” all the time.  Sometimes, I’m just a normal chick... trying to enjoy a normal date...”

Now it’s awkward. I haven’t laughed at any of his “material." He's now well aware he's bombing.

When we finish eating, we head out into the rows of carny games. He stops me at the basketball game, advertising, “ONE IN WINS.” He gives the carny five bucks.

“You have three shots. If you miss all three, you have to kiss me.”

FACK! This might be romantic, straight out of a Kate Hudson movie, and possibly even charming if I wasn’t so turned off at this point. But I agree to the bet, because I feel like a mom who’s just cursed at her kid. Now I feel bad, and want to be nice again. And I gotta say, I really focused on making those shots. Like NBA playoff game free throws. Even my date could tell.

“Wow. You really don’t want this kiss, do you?”

Haha! Well, he finally made me laugh. But you know how these carny games are rigged so you lose. Every shot bounced off the rim. I was soooooo close, despite how gimped I probably look in this picture. (Can somebody give me tips on my form?)

  Alas, I lose. Facking carny games. He kisses me, with some real effort to impress. He’s trying to be passionate, which is not easy when you’re surrounded by whiffle balls and plastic ducks. The kiss actually makes me feel like I’M out of practice. I don’t think I’m opening my mouth enough for him… But then I think about how much cider I’ve drank this week, aaaaaaand... the moments done. Over. I’m out. I just can't.  

It’s interesting. Most dates I walk into thinking,

I’m NOT going to sleep with him!

I’m NOT going to sleep with him!

I’m NOT going to sleep with him!

This date was the opposite. I’m kind of horny, haven’t got laid since August 2nd, (now you know what I did on my blogging hiatus) and could really use some action. But not this action. Not #201. That’s the tricky part about being a girl. It’s so easy to get sex, but it’s so hard to get the sex you want… 

Part of me thinks he was just trying TOO hard to make me laugh, because I'm comedian. Another part of me fears that's really how he acts all the time...

I would have added him on Facebook, but like most players, he’s not on Facebook. They don’t like being tracked, eh?

  So here I am again…

Using my fingers for things other than rings,

  (Maybe that will work after all…)

  Walkinsauce 

*Notice I used the real F word there. Not FACK! That’s me getting ballsy, yo.

Holy fack! I’m blogging again! This is so nerve racking. I feel like this is season two, and the pressure is on. Maybe this season won’t be as powerful as the first. A lot of you wrote to me saying, “Go for 100 Tinder dates!” I could have. I haven’t deleted Tinder or anything. But I need to expand my horizons. You can date anywhere you go in life, through all sorts of outlets. You could go up to a hot guy in Wal-Mart and offer to buy him a can of tuna. (If you can find a hot guy in Wal-Mart.) The sky’s the limit. Of course, my whole point of My Week on Tinder was to prove how fun being single is. And I don't know if I proved it to you, but I definitely proved it to myself. I've never had so much fun in my life.

Oh, I facking LOVE everybody who told me to keep writing. It’s why I’m here right now. As we know, I’m a tragically lazy person. Blogging is the only thing I committed to last year. I know I need to keep writing, no matter how strong my fear of public grammar errors is. So I thought about what I wanted to make my next blog. My first choice was to stop showering and shaving and start a modern day cavewoman’s blog. But that seemed a little too close to my real life, so I didn’t see the niche. I thought about trying a dating blog based on Christian Mingle, but I just discovered 3:16 is not Pi. (Pi is actually 3.14159265359- the exact number I say when people ask me how many people I’ve slept with.)

But then I thought of an idea I had months ago, when I had interest from a producer who wanted to develop my blog into a reality show. He asked me what I wanted to call my show. I thought about it, and the title that best represents my life, is “Resisting Marriage.” I was swiftly shot down.

 “You can’t use the word “marriage” in the title. Young people won’t watch it.”

Hmmmmm… I said “resisting marriage.” I didn’t say “FACK yeah Marriage rules!” The word “resist” was in my title. Heaven forbid we send a message to young people to NOT rush into marriage. That it’s okay to be unmarried at 30. Let’s keep letting them believe they should be married by 25! Beat the rush! Do it at 23! Be the first! Right out of high school! You’re the winner! (And divorced by my age.) I see marriage like sky diving. If I do it, I’m only doing it once. (And it may kill me.) It’s a social convention that was invented when people only lived to be 27. Now that we’re all gonna (hopefully) live to 100, don’t you think we should take our time with this? Maybe wait a while? Make sure we’re done sowing our wild oats? Find someone who just gets that you’ll never fill the Brita? And more importantly, be okay if we find him a little later in life? I’m in my 30’s, and I’m just starting to get really good at being single. I want to ride this out for a while. I get it. Marriage is a tradition. But the only tradition I’m still truly behind is retirement.

Oh, this is where I cover my ass and say, “Oh, but I do know super perfect couples, still in love! It can happen!” That’s true too. Everybody’s different. But on the wake of a Beyonce/Jay-Z break-up, we also have to realize break-ups can happen to anybody… My friend Kathleen McGee has a hilarious joke about married people. Or maybe the joke is about blowjobs. Let’s just print it and see:

“I always hear married women complain about giving blowjobs… I actually like giving blow jobs. Tell you what… I’ll blow your husband, you go to Costco. Everybody’s happy.”

(-@Kathleen_McGee on Twitter)

No matter what your reaction to this joke is, I watched it KILL in Vancouver last week. When the crowd laughed as hard as they did, I knew there was a real truth to this. Yikes. I don’t think I’m ready to replace my sex life with twelve boxes of Q-Tips. I’m actually hoping for more .5’s in this blog. I’m getting closer to my sexual peak, and I only like using vibrators on the outside, if you get my drift. (I save the inside for boys.)

So, this is my new blog. Resisting Marriage. I’m gonna live my single life, date, pursue my dreams, and pray for no typos. I have a weird theory that the reason I don't desire the whole wedding day thing, is because I'm a stand up comic. I already get enough time in the spotlight. I don't need that one "big day" where all my friends watch me walk down the aisle in a big white dress. Plus weddings take a LOT of organization AND money. Two things I don't have. Personally, I think I can skip that whole industry. (Some people argue that I won't organize it- my maid of honour will. Making my BEST FRIEND do all that work does NOT make me feel better. I'd actually feel guilty. Plus, I don't even like cake.)

I trust you know I’m organically happy sleeping alone every night. I almost cherish it. (I’ve slept with a lot of people who snore.) We’ll see what happens. I had no idea what I was doing when I started my last blog, and I have no idea what I’m doing now… That’s the fun thing about a blog. Nobody telling you what to say, or what to do. This is really me. Even if I’m a total facking idiot.

But here’s where I remind you of what an idealist I am…

I honestly believe that if we grow up a little slower, “put a ring on it” a little later, we can abolish cheating. Everybody hates cheaters. Nobody means to cheat. But it’s happening- and to good people. You hear it all the time:

“Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.”

How about this:

Let’s change the game.

Let’s say you can't buy Boardwalk until after you’ve been around the board at least a dozen times. Let’s allow people to land on our property a bunch of times, before we build hotels, and take all their money. (Is this analogy even close to making sense?) The game is long. No point in peaking too early. (I don't think I've ever figured out how to end a game of Monopoly.)

So welcome to my new blog. Where I will (hopefully) prove to you a marriage free life can be fun. I want to be a landing pad for the newly single. (Which I think I already am.) Breakups are disturbing. Being single is awesome. You just have to remember to breathe through the transition... 

Remember to love life, as much as you love a significant other.

(Or, I end up hopelessly in love and married a year from now, and we all look back on this blog and laugh at me.)

Keep Calm, and – Wait, that’s facking done. How do I sign off with this blog?

Using my fingers for things other than rings,

 Walkinsauce

  (K, I’m gonna work on that. I can do better.)