On women as buzz-kills.

Frank the Tank: I told my wife I wouldn't drink tonight. Besides, I got a big day tomorrow. You guys have a great time.

Student: A big day? Doing what?

Frank the Tank: Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday, we're going to go to Home Depot. Yeah, buy some wallpaper, maybe get some flooring, stuff like that. Maybe Bed, Bath, & Beyond..

You've seen and heard this story too many times: Boy meets Girl. Boy stops hanging out with his buddies. Girl forces Boy to do dull home improvement projects, and forbids Boy from ever watching sports or playing video games. Boy strives to escape Girl's constant nagging.

This concept of a man's life ending once he enters a relationship is everywhere! I saw a commercial today that summed it up perfectly. I couldn't find it on Youtube, so I'll have to give you a synopsis:

The gist of the commercial was “Absolutely everyone is coming to our massive Toyota sale! You never know who you'll run into!”

Enter a husband and wife, dressed in matching polo shirts and looking like total lame-o squares. Suddenly, a scruffy man runs up to the husband and exclaims, “Thrasher! I haven't seen you since high school! We're getting the band back together – you in?” The wife then glares daggers at the husband. The husband cringes and refuses to the join the band or give his old friend the time of day.

Geez, no wonder guys don't want to get into relationships! Apparently we women are bigger buzz-kills than Buzz Killington! We're kind of a mix between your mom, your elementary school principal, and your parole officer. We exist only to ensure that you never do anything awesome ever again.

Or not. In fact, I've never met any woman like that. The women I know want to travel. They want to go bungee jumping. They want to be in the front row at concerts. They want to share a pitcher with you while cheering on the Canucks. And they are quite happy to forget about stereotypes, and skip that lame trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Trust me.

Girls' Night Out!

Loyal readers, welcome to another installment of "How Socially Inept Am I?"

As part of a generation raised on Sex and the City, I'm supposed to have a close-knit posse of girlfriends and walk around arm-in-arm with them, Cosmos in hand, constantly laughing hysterically.

But I don't have this posse. I've never had this posse. I started hanging out in co-ed groups in Grade 9 and never looked back. The all-girl parties I attended (with a few exceptions) always felt like veiled interventions: "I guess Robyn is technically one of us - maybe we can save her and make her less weird!"

Doing the co-ed thing is great; however, I recently realized that my guy friends outnumber my girl friends 5 to 1. That's getting a bit ridiculous. So, I decided to go bowling last night with 12 other girls, no boys allowed!

I knew I was in trouble the moment I walked in. I had just thrown on some old jeans and battered Converse sneakers, because who dresses up to go to Rev's Bowling in Burnaby? Apparently, everyone. These girls had each spent at least an hour on their hair. They were wearing knee-high boots and sparkling with jewelry. I had never seen so many flawless manicures in one place. If I ignored the sound of bowling pins falling over, I could imagine I was at a Hollywood premiere.

And everything they did took forever. Before a girl bowled, she had to pose for a Facebook photo with the ball. And then we'd do a team photo. And then the team in the next lane would notice we were taking photos and join in. Then, she would bowl. If she hit anything at all, our team would all scream, jump up and down, and hug each other. We'd dance to the background music. Maybe we'd take a celebration photo. The bowler would say how relieved she was that she hadn't broken a nail - because she almost broke a nail that time! A lively discussion would follow about our favourite places to get nails done, and harrowing tales of botched manicures. And then - OMG someone's taking a photo!

Near the end, I was physically exhausted. I had lost my voice from all the screaming. More than anything, I wanted to sit down, order a drink that wasn't pink, and talk about what would happen if zombies attacked the bowling alley.

I was at that bowling alley for literally 6 hours. And I left early. The others were probably there for at least 8 or 9.

Is this the sort of thing that's supposed to come naturally to me? Because it doesn't - I went home and slept for 12 hours straight. Mission to find Sex and the City-esque girl friend posse - FAIL.

Winter is here...

…and my co-workers are complaining about it. I don't feel sorry for them, though, because I know that they, like most North Americans, secretly love to be cold.

Case in point: my office is blessed with large, old-fashioned bay windows that open into a lush and picturesque backyard. Now imagine that it is April or May in Vancouver . The rain has stopped, the sun has come out, the birds are singing. It is 18 or 19° C, and the office is slightly warm.

Do my co-workers throw open the bay windows and allow Mother Nature to caress them with a gentle, cooling breeze? No. They crank up the A/C to the point where I seriously consider bringing gloves and a toque to work. (I actually did have to wear a fleece for most of August.)

And have you noticed that North Americans have a strange obsession with travelling to the hottest places on Earth and transforming them into the coldest places on Earth?

Take Las Vegas , for example: “Hey, I know! Let’s all go to the Mojave Desert and build hotels with heavy-duty air conditioning systems so that no-one ever has to break a sweat!”

Another example: a few years ago, I went on a Greek Islands cruise. I foolishly assumed that travellers to the Greek Islands would be prepared for heat, or at least a reasonable level of warmth. However, my roommates kept the A/C cranked so high that I didn’t sleep for an entire week. The sound of my teeth chattering kept me awake. I tried putting on every tank top and pair of short shorts I owned (which I had packed assuming that I was going on a FREAKING BEACH VACATION and not some sort of arctic survival simulation), but somehow it didn't help.

So, I have a business proposition, if any of you want to jump on board. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

The Winnipeg Luxury Eco-Resort: Enjoy Air Conditioning that’s Crisp, Cool, and All-Natural.

Sandals Iqaluit: Finally! A Beach Resort Without all the Damn Heat.

It’ll be a huge success, I swear! And then everyone can leave the hot climates to people like me who actually WANT to warm up!

Worst. Pick-up Line. Ever.

So I was at a bar the other night with a large group - some people I knew and some I didn't.

One of the guys sidled up to me, smiled, and said, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Meredith from The Office?"

For those of you unfamiliar with The Office:

I just stared at him in shock, wondering if I really do resemble a raging alcoholic cougar in her late 40s.

He noticed my confusion and horror. "You know, the blond one...the accountant..."

"Ohhh," I said. "You mean ANGELA."

Somewhat better...aside from the fact that I apparently give off prudish, neurotic cat lady vibes.

Needless to say, I am still single.

So guys, next time you're trying to be smooth, leave The Office references out of it! Please and thank you...

This just in!

http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/afp/101111/health/health_us_brain_internet

Studies show that people are happier while having sex or talking to friends than they are while sitting at home alone or working.

Well, thank you Dr. Obvious! Fun stuff makes people happier than boring stuff!

But apparently it's more complicated than that. According to scientists, we are unhappy while doing boring stuff not because it's boring, but because our minds are wandering to the future or the past, rather than being present in the “moment.”

My weird neighbour gave me a similar lecture the other day. My problem, according to him, is that I don't exist purely in the moment. For instance, when I'm washing the dishes, I should just “be” washing the dishes. When I'm waiting for the bus, I should just enjoy waiting for the bus.

Now, I'm all for living for the moment. So many people say to themselves, “I'll travel after I'm rich; I'll have fun once I've bought a house,” and they probably shouldn't do that. Just as they shouldn't text constantly while on a date, etc.

But honestly, life was a hell of a lot simpler when we didn't have to be ecstatically happy ALL THE DAMN TIME! When we could admit that hang gliding over Rio de Janeiro is actually a more enjoyable experience than riding a packed B-Line or working on a spreadsheet.

I just don't understand ultra-wellnessy people. When I'm doing something boring, I try to find something LESS boring to do. But according to them, this is not the route to happiness. True happiness comes from embracing the boring activity and learning to love it.

Whatever.

Often, wellness gurus will blame Ipods and other electronic devices for taking our attention away from the “wonders” of the present. But really, I don't think that's the issue here. In the olden days, while waiting on a drab street corner for the horse-drawn stagecoach (late AGAIN), one passenger would likely have turned to another and exclaimed, “I say Bartholomew, waiting for this horse-drawn conveyance is indeed tiresome; I wish I was at a merry country dance instead!”

And he was not suffering from a deep psychological complex brought on by modernity. He was simply saying that some things are boring and other things are fun. And that's fine!

And really, I dare you to go find an actual enlightened guru who enjoys waiting for the #25 bus as much as he enjoys having sex. Well, actually, don't. That would be one creepy dude.

'Cause I don't feel like dancing, no sir, no dancing today..

I did not go clubbing this past Hallowe'en, although I was invited. A number of factors led to my decision:

Artificial lineups.

You know when a club is empty, but they keep everybody outside for 40 minutes anyway, just so it looks popular to people driving by?

Expenses.

$20-$25 to get in.

$5-10 for coat check (unless you are some sort of top-secret fembot prototype who does not have nerves, and therefore can stand outside indefinitely wearing a minidress).

$7-$8 for the most basic drink they have.

$20 - $45 for a cab home.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I like spending money in order to have fantastic experiences that I will treasure forever. However, at a club, there is:

Little return on investment.

Some prudish Vancouverites avoid clubs for fear that they are hotbeds of drunkenness and sin. However, it is impossible to get drunk in most Vancouver clubs – and I've tried.

First, you have to justify the expense of $7 for a beer or rum-and-coke. Then, you have to wait at the bar for half an hour (or defeat several sharp-clawed, spike-heeled enemies to get to the front of the line). Then, by the time you get your drink, your friends have disappeared and you spend the next half-hour looking for them. So, it’s really an hour’s commitment for that one drink. But what if you want two?

The few people who are drunk likely pounded large amounts of hard liquor right before they walked in the door. They are on a completely different planet from you – no wonder they seem aggressive!

So, you can’t drink, you can't talk to anyone, and you've probably lost most of your friends in the crowd anyway. So what do you do?

You dance.

Now, some people really love dancing. They enter a separate world where all their cares melt away. I am happy for them. But I am not one of them. Just when I think I’m hitting my groove and looking hot, someone helpfully says, “Oh geez, are you okay?” or “You can stop doing the robot now.”

The only environments in which I can dance are 80s nights or synth performances by giant dinosaurs. Then my horrible dancing is retro, ironic, and therefore cool.

When I was 20, I did like the club atmosphere: “Wow, I’m here with my girlfriends, dancing at a club, just like all those trendy women on TV!” But, then the buzz-killing mid-20s rolled around, and I suddenly realized, “I’m paying $75 to dance, stone-cold sober, with girls. And... I’m a girl.”

So, in conclusion, I would rather go to a pub. Get comfortably sloshed at the same pace as my friends. Talk. Play pool. Laugh. Eat greasy food. Mingle. Listen to live music. You know, fun stuff. Social stuff. Not-being-groped-by-old-men stuff.

So I read this random article on the internet...

...which has convinced me that I am completely and utterly screwed.

I'm sure you've heard it all before. The theory goes that:

a) Women are naturally attracted to older, wealthy men. Because these older men possess power and status, women are instinctively drawn to their ability to protect their future children.

b) Men are naturally attracted to "fertile" women much younger than themselves.

Sure. The only problem is, I'm the exact opposite. I run screaming from anyone over 30. The more symbols of power and status that men try to cram down my throat, such as fancy cars or tales of board-meeting domination, the more I am repulsed by them.

My violent aversion to the powerful older man isn't a new development, either. When I was in Grade 6, all the girls in my class had crushes on the Grade 7 boys. Meanwhile, I fell head over heels for a Grade 5.

This is all just more evidence that I have no mothering instinct. I have never sought out a provider for my future children. Instead, I have selfishly pursued my own pleasure.

That's okay, nothing wrong with that, right?

Well, according to this article, the men I'm attracted to (my age or younger) are all busy pursuing "fertile" 21-year-olds. Wonderful.

So it looks like I need to develop a sudden appetite for gray hair and crow's feet...or else embrace a life of celibacy. Hello, old friend.

Unfortunately, chivalry is alive and well.

A few weeks ago, I took an informal poll of my friends: “Is it okay to dump a guy because he hates reading?” The answer was overwhelmingly “Yes!”

Now it’s time for another poll: “Is it okay to dump someone because they’re too chivalrous?”

What? Too chivalrous? How can that be? Well, here’s the situation:

We were heading into a restaurant downtown when a young, attractive woman walked by, attempting to wear a sweatshirt as a dress and failing quite spectacularly.

“Whoa, check that out!” I exclaimed.

Mr. X looked at her for a few seconds, thought for a while, and seized my shoulder. “Robyn,” he declared passionately, “I didn’t notice ANYTHING.”

Barefaced lie # 1. He was staring at a girl without pants on for a good 15 seconds. Now, it's true that his intentions in lying were chivalrous. However, I'm used to hanging out with people who are straightforward, and consider it fair game to comment on whatever falls within their field of vision.

Later in the course of the evening, the topic of music came up. I mentioned that I had Katy Perry's "California Girls" stuck in my head. To fully illustrate the depths of my torment, I launched into an off-key imitation of the song, in a whiny nasal voice.

Mr. X leaned across the table, gazed at me with plaintive puppy-dog eyes, and said, "You sang that really well." WHAT?

Now, I know my sarcasm. There was none in his voice. Therefore,

a) this was some sort of attempt at seduction. But, could he really find nothing to compliment me on without resorting to barefaced lies?

b) he was so convinced of my unearthly feminine grace that he truly believed I sang well.

Either way, it freaked me out. So, just for fun, I offered to pay for dinner. I don't usually insist on this, but I wanted to see what would happen. At first, the hyperventilating, twitching, and panicked babbling were amusing, but after 5 minutes, I wondered if I should be calling 9-1-1. Was this the first case of Death by Feminism?

The good news is that I traumatized him badly enough that he hasn't called me back, and I can get on with my life.

Tool of the Month Club

People ask why I don't date guys who describe themselves as "young professionals." I never quite knew the answer - it was more of a gut feeling. But now, thanks to an e-mail I got today, I know! Read it and weep:

Hello wonderful and beautiful people of Vancouver!

We are a group of young professionals who decided that instead of complaining about the lack of fun night life and interesting people in Vancouver, we should do something about it.We know there are several social groups in Vancouver, most have open memberships. Thats fine, but we are looking for something at the higher end. People who are financially secure and want to network with other successful people.We have been to several other groups and have been to a lot of events, some are good some and bad. What we want to do with this group is to be exclusive on who can join so we can find like minded people who share the same passion and interests.

We are not looking to create a huge group, we are fine with 50-100 fun people who know what they want in life.

Yes, this will be exclusive and we will not be allowing everyone to join. We want successful people who are beautiful inside and out and have difficulty meeting quality people at their same level.

What we can promise you is that our team of business professionals and promotion experts will create amazing events and exclusive parties for you so you can meet with the best the city has to offer. We will have exclusive business networking events as well as fun events for singles and professionals.

Some people will obviously criticize us for being exclusive, but at this stage of our lives we are interested in meeting people who can turn into positive relationships for years to come. We want to only attract the best and the brightest from Vancouver.

There will be a membership card issued to all would-be members.

Don't you just want to smack him/her? I probably shouldn't get worked up about a spam e-mail, but... I just hope it's a massive scam, so that the smug douchebags who actually reply to it get taken for all they're worth.

So guys: do you live in your parents' basement? Are you working toward your third masters degree? Have you been writing that brilliant screenplay for 7 years, in between backpacking trips to Thailand? If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, you're the guy for me! At least your hobbies probably don't include "eugenics."

The best thing that EVER happened to me?

I just read a fascinating article by Judy Segal, called “Cancer isn't the best thing that ever happened to me.”

http://www.vancouversun.com/health/Cancer+best+thing+that+ever+happened/2752354/story.html

For those of you who aren't going to click the link, here's what it's all about. Basically, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she found that there was only one way that she could talk about her experience, only one possible script to follow: “I found a lump; I was scared; I stayed positive and I fought; I recovered; now I am a better person; in some ways, cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

If she deviated from this scripted narrative, by hinting that she was scared or angry rather than enlightened, family, friends, and society didn't know what to do with her. She says it best: “If, as a person with cancer, you violate the code of optimism, or if cancer somehow failed to improve you, you'd better be quiet.”

*******DISCLAIMER*********

I am now about to make a possibly inappropriate transition into whining about my personal life. Please note that I don't intend to belittle cancer – dear family members have had it, and at work, I see amazing, brave kids face things every day that I've never imagined. If you are offended by inappropriate segues, please stop reading now. Thank you.

So anyways, as you know, I recently experienced a breakup. When I tried to talk about my feelings with an old friend, he threw a fit and decided he never wanted to speak to me again. I had no idea why, until I read that article. I realized: he threw the fit because I wasn't following the Socially Acceptable Breakup Narrative. You know the one:

The day of the breakup:

I eat ice cream in my pajamas while watching Sex and the City. My girlfriends come over to comfort me, we give each other makeovers, and possibly a pillow fight breaks out.

The next day:

I vow to put it all behind me. Aren't I glad that I'm not with that horrible person anymore, who constantly made me miserable? I just want to forget all about him! Now I can finally be ME!

The next week:

This is actually the best thing that ever happened to me because now I'm so much stronger! What a wonderful opportunity!

But that day, talking to my friend, I mentioned that I still value the great times my ex and I had together, and that I think being single actually kinda blows. In other words, I went waaaay off the script. And he had no idea how to react. Hence the hissy fit and ensuing silent treatment.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: some things just plain suck. And you shouldn't have to be shunned by society for saying so.

I will leave you with the words of Michael Scott :

“You know when people say, getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to them?

I feel sorry for those people.

That's? The best thing? Really? Yugh!”

I wish I owned this place so I could actually go through with it...

Dear Robin (sic),

I appreciate that you are such a quiet neighbour. However, I would like you to know that I was awakened at 3 a.m. last night because of some noise (which I believe originated from your apartment).

Regards,

Weirdo.

Dear Weirdo,

I appreciate that you usually have a life. However, I would like you to know that you did not have one at 3 am last night. You also did not have one this morning, when you took time to compose and type an overly formal letter to me. I trust that you will take measures to remedy this situation, and regain said life in order to preserve the quiet, peaceful character of this building.

I would also like to draw your attention to the severe winds that were in effect April 2-3, 2010, which caused a severe rattling of windows and blowing about of garbage cans, and were likely the source of said noise. Although I am 25 years younger than you, unfortunately I did not cause this phenomenon just to annoy you, and thus cannot accept the blame.

Regards,

Robyn.

In which the blogger discovers the impurity of her soul...

So I went to a Yoga class today. I figured, since it is Vancouver's main pastime, I should give it a go!

Now, there was a chance that I inherited a Terrible-at-Yoga gene. My dad lives and breathes yoga - it changed his life. My mom, after listening him rave about the benefits of yoga for years, decided to join a class. For those of you who haven't met my mom, she is a very fit lady, and can pass for 20 years younger than she is. 15 minutes into her first yoga class, she ran from the room to puke her guts out.

I thought I'd be okay, though. I figure-skated for almost 20 years, and had no problem with whirling at breakneck speed around the ice. My coach used to make me spin for 3 minutes straight, while timing me with a stopwatch. Dizziness was never an issue, and a lot of yoga poses are quite similar to figure skating poses.

I picked a Hot Yoga class, which I also thought would be okay. I love the heat. I'm more comfortable in 40 degree heat than I am in an air-conditioned room. I was in Greece in 2007 (remember the year with all the wildfires and the record-breaking heat?) and just loved it. I was the only one out exploring while my tourmates suffered, with the AC blasting, in their rooms. So, Hot Yoga - no sweat! (har har)

15 minutes into the class, I started to feel, well...funny. "Breathe it out, just breathe it out," I reassured myself. 30 seconds later, I was in the washroom with the dry heaves. 15 minutes later, I told myself, "Okay, you got through it, now finish the class!" 5 minutes later, I was lying on my mat watching the the room spin. That was the end.

I left, still clutching my stomach in agony, while all around me happy voices cried, "That was sooooooo much fun! I want to do it EVERY DAY!!!!!"

So, has this ever happened to anyone else, or do my mother and I need exorcisms, pronto?

Remember this guy?

This is Manuel Uribe, the 2007 world record holder for Fattest Man, en route to his wedding on a flatbed truck. His wife, Claudia Solis, is actually quite an attractive lady. Now, I don't mean to belittle Manuel's condition, or the power of this couple's love. But...don't you think this story proves a point? That dating is soooooo much easier for men than for women?

I mean, really. Guys, you can literally weigh a ton, never leave your house, and require a "specially designed ramp" in order to have sex. But still, some beautiful woman will magically appear and fall in love with you. It's not fair.

Pick up any women's magazine and you'll notice that its main subject is Keeping Your Man, as if men were the most skittish, impossible-to-please creatures in the universe:

Date ideas to Keep Your Man!

Makeup, fashion, and hygiene tips to Keep Your Man!

Celebrities who have Kept Their Man, and how!

Celebrities who have not Kept Their Man, and why!

Are you too jealous? Are you not jealous enough?

Are you too flirty? Are you not flirty enough?

Are you too distant? Do you need to give him more space?

The rules of Keeping Your Man are enough to make a girl's head spin. And even if you follow every rule to the letter (even the stuff that contradicts the other stuff), it's completely futile. Because men ARE the most skittish, impossible-to-please creatures in the universe. One day you'll look at him the wrong way, or Saturn will be aligned with Sagittarius, and he'll be on the first bus to Splitsville.

It's just not fair.

Singlehood - Day 1

So I was reading an article the other day about how more couples break up in January than any other month. Something about New Year's Resolutions, and improving your life by randomly cutting ties with those who love you. Little did I know that it was omen. Yay.

So, for all of you who have made it through January without a breakup, I have compiled a list of clichés to avoid when consoling your newly single friends, i.e me:

“It’s better to be happy and single than unhappy in a relationship.”

Yes, excellent advice for many. But some, like me, were quite happy in said relationship, did not see this coming, and now are not happy at all, single or not.

“You have to love yourself before you can love someone else.”

Is this supposed to be a double entendre, or am I just imagining things?

“Try to see this as a wonderful opportunity – now you can do what you really want with your life!”

Firstly, I resent the implication that a person in a relationship is somehow less of a person, that I was a mindless slave to the whims of my boyfriend and had no sense of my own identity.

Secondly, being in a relationship was what I wanted to do with my life! Believe me, I have experienced the myriad joys that singlehood has to offer, and really, it’s not that great. In our society, we have this (ironically enough) romantic vision of singlehood as some pinnacle of freedom and self-expression. However, most people still have to work for a living, and won’t be going on any meditation retreats to Nepal for a while. So mostly, singlehood consists of my everyday dull routine, without the consolations of human companionship, and occasionally peppered with terrible blind dates.

“There are plenty of fish in the sea”

Yeah, I've only had one real boyfriend in my life. This one won't fly, I'm afraid.

So what is the answer? What is the best thing to say? I don't know, but hugs are always good.