Tag: romance

An Attempt To Understand the Universe

The last time I tried to go camping I decided to drive out alone late on a Saturday evening to where my brother and our mutual friends were.

Except Google maps took me to a dead end on a dirt road with no cell service. By the time I hit the dead end it was pitch dark out.

‘THIS is how horror movies start’, was all I could think. And later, ‘fuck you Google.’

Luckily no axe murderer appeared in the truck behind me and I didn’t let myself cry until I had cell service and could see signs of civilization. So no camping for me that summer.

The next chance I had to go camping was a few months ago. I said yes to this opportunity for a few reasons. I really liked the douche bag that invited me and surely I wouldn’t get lost this time because I wouldn’t be driving, he would. I felt better knowing there wasn’t a chance of reliving my dead end nightmare because he had taken me up to the camping spot for the day the weekend before; no dead ends. I was excited.

Except he never came to pick me up.

In fact, I never heard from him again.

I went through various stages of anger as the days went on with no sign of him. I went from making excuses for him, to disbelief, to thinking ‘maybe he’s dead,’ to hoping he was dead, to planning on killing him myself.

But this story isn’t about him. It’s actually about a neck injury I endured the week after scheming about killing him. And about my theory that the Universe just doesn’t want me to go camping.

It’s the best conclusion I could come to. One other possible theory: Perhaps I’m meant to stay single for another Calgary stampede. I do love a rowdy July.

So about my neck injury. I wish I could tell you something serious had happened to me, or that I was in a really difficult & impressive yoga pose, or at the very least had fallen down the stairs. But no-I hurt my neck so badly that I had to take time off of work because apparently shaving your armpit in the shower is actually quite dangerous.

The worst part is that I was unnecessarily shaving my armpit. But my thought process went like this:

‘They’re still perfectly smooth’

‘But I probably won’t shower tomorrow and then they won’t be in condition for going out tomorrow night’

‘If I see that idiot tomorrow night I’m going to give him a piece of my mind and look really pretty doing it’

‘Better shave them now.’

Crack.

Then I almost threw up.

Somehow I managed to put a shirt on and arrive at work without shoulder checking. Sitting hurt, walking made me cry, talking was frequently interrupted by flashes of pain. My coworkers insisted I go home, rest, and think of a better story as to how I hurt myself.

My friends are wonderful; I was very well taken care of. I even received homemade chocolate chip cookies with a note that said, Rx: take 3 cookies daily until neck pain subsides which obviously I overdosed on that afternoon.

But the best diagnosis I got came from my energy healer friend. She fixed me up with magnesium, some energy healing magic, a bean bag, and the root of my problem:

“Honey, has anyone been a real pain in your neck lately?”

That ASSHOLE, I immediately thought.

I have heard many, many times that stress causes illness. But never have I actually recognized it working that way in my life. I’m a generally stress free person. Until I start dating cowardly camping ditchers.

It does seem fishy that I hurt my neck that badly by turning my head slightly to the left to perform a task that most females do every other morning. I run, I work my butt off in spin classes, I take power yoga classes, and I party like a rockstar.

So how I cracked my neck shaving my armpit is beyond me. So I’ll take her assessment of the situation as correct. “This guy was nothing but a pain in your neck, literally”.

When the neck pain finally subsided and I still hadn’t heard from him I got a little too drunk with my roommate and impulsively got an eharmony account. I swore off Tinder.

This was a bad decision. Don’t let those well-crafted commercials convince you. I went on the worst dates of all time. I would have rather relived my first date with that French guy who wouldn’t stop calling me baby. That says something.

This series of bad dates ended with a bang when I got stood up for the first time. I was at my hairdressers house; we were hanging out on the front porch. This guy was meant to pick me up from her place at 7:00. 7:30 rolls around and he’s not responding to my text so I call a cab.

My hairdresser tries to make me feel better. “Maybe he died too.”

On the way home I decided three things.

1. eHarmony had already paid for itself; I had been taken out for enough dinners and drinks and coffees to make it worth it.

2. The All Mighty Universe doesn’t want me to go camping.

3. And it wants me to stay single.

I paid my cab driver and felt kind of sad that only my hairdresser and him got to see my cute date outfit. But I also felt at peace with my conclusions. After a string of bad dates and a neck injury, I was ready to pack it in for the summer and dust off my cowboy boots.

But as I approached my building a handsome man was running across 11th Avenue towards me.

“Hey! Is Sunterra closed? I’m starving and there’s nothing in my fridge.”

“I hope so; I’m hungry too.”

It was closed.

Two starving strangers stood at the doors of Sunterra. I blurted out to him why I was so hungry-he was the first person I told about being stood up for the first time.

“Oh no, it wasn’t Tinder was it?”

Then he asked me if I wanted to get a coffee. What the fuck Universe. We literally just decided no more dates. That included coffee dates.

…stay tuned.

Shania Twain & The Australian Invasion

My last blog post ended with that handsome neighbor offering to buy me a coffee outside of Sunterra after I had been stood up.

What happened next was he took me for coffee and we’ve been inseparable ever since.

Just kidding.

What actually happened next was that I said “No, it’s okay” which I immediately regretted as soon as I stepped into my elevator. I guess I had had a shitty enough day and wasn’t interested in a pity coffee. I just wanted to curl up on the couch and watch The Mindy Project.

My energy healer friend told me, “You need to learn how to be a better receiver”.

My roommate called me an idiot. “He lives in the LOFTS!? Those are expensive!!”

Coworkers shook their heads in disappointment.

I know!! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was being stubborn with the pact I had only moments ago made with the universe to stop dating for the rest of summer. But it’s okay because the next weekend the British Army was in town. And I was practicing being a better receiver.

Enter Stew. I actually don’t really like the British accent except for a select few people. My roommate, Bridget Jones, and my roommate’s handsome friend that she FaceTimes on a weekly basis. They are charming and intelligent. Most often I find the accent quite arrogant and snobby sounding.

So Stew’s accent wasn’t doing him any favors. But the drinks I had were working and I was trying to be a good receiver of his affection. I thought he was quite handsome but my coworker kept telling me, “He is NOT handsome Katie”.

I concluded that we must just have different types.

So my three friends, Stew, and the rest of the British Army ended up at Cowboys. I should grow up, I know. But it’s the only place I really like to dance. Or maybe I should just move to the South. I should also note that Stew and all of his friends were wearing literally the same thing. Blue jeans and baby blue checkered button ups. You couldn’t tell who was who.

Stew got real sloppy so I wandered off. There was a handsome guy in a striped sweater that caught my eye. I went up and said hello. Also British. Also sloppy drunk.

Then my roommate and I spotted a tall guy from across the room. She bet me ten dollars that he was also British. Even though this bar seemed to be bursting with the UK I was still skeptical. How could she possibly tell? He wasn’t wearing a checkered blue shirt.

But sure enough when I went up to speak to him I was greeted with the same accent. This one’s name was Robert. My roommate and Robert got talking as I wandered the crowd of British men in checkered shirts. Turns out Robert lived in the lofts across the street from our building.

Roommate: “Katie got asked out by a guy that lives in your building after she got stood up one night, but she was rude and said no.”

Robert: “No way! I’ve heard that story before. I know the guy!”

Robert may or may not have been pulling our leg. His friend who we all thought may have been the same guy who asked me out was supposedly from Australia but I’m pretty sure I would have remembered an Australian accent.

Remember, I wasn’t drunk at the time. I was hungry, pissed off, and dead sober.

I learned a few things about British men that night. They are very convincing; whether it’s to let them buy you a drink, kiss you, or convince you they know the guy you regret shutting down.

That night will forever be known as the British Invasion because of the three of us, we were at the very least kissed by one (or two) and there may or may not have been a few British men in my apartment that night.

So that was the British Invasion, but we’re not finished with Australia yet.

On Sunday, July 13th, a little after midnight, my phone kept buzzing. It was the last night of Stampede. Snoop-dog was playing in the Cowboys tent across the street and all I could hear were sirens-most of them headed towards the tent. I watched the fireworks from my balcony. Despite a bad case of FOMO I had convinced myself to stay in and drink a detox tea because Stampede 2014 took a serious toll on my body. I had enough stories and I had lost my voice; I couldn’t handle one more night.

Usually I watch the last set of thundering fireworks and feel like crying knowing that I have to wait three hundred and fifty five more days to do it all over again. But on this summer night I felt content and complete, besides the hoarse smoker cough. It had been a fun, eventful year full of questionable decisions and new memories.

So my phone was buzzing nonstop.

“Hey it’s the Bear from Cowboys” Of all the pretend cowboys this year by far my favorite was the man wearing a stuffed animal bear head. I spotted him on the dance floor and wanted nothing more than to two step with this adorable fuzzy bear with great biceps. I don’t know what his name is. He knows mine because I’m in his phone as “Katie She Likes Bears”

Then there was small town Ontario guy. In our drunken stupor he had said to me, “I haven’t had a kiss like that in a decade”. I wonder how many people think they’ve found love in that tent. We definitely thought we had. I smile at the blurry memory of it. It was like being eighteen and in love on the Cowboys dance floor all over again.

And then there’s Tom. It was the night of Shania Twain’s first show. A Wednesday. The plan was to have a few drinks at my condo, go see the concert, and be home at a respectable hour. I should know better. Those nights never, ever, turn out as such.

I almost want to skip to the part, seven hours later, where there’s three Australian men on my balcony.

We drank a few spiked Twisted Tea’s before heading over to Shania. Obviously, she was UNREAL. To the annoyance of the old people behind us we belted out her entire concert and even got to touch her hand.

“SHE LOOKED AT ME!!” was what I texted nearly my entire contact list.

The Twisted Tea’s had worn off but the buzz we had got from Shania wasn’t going anywhere so obviously we thought it was a good idea to head to one of the tents. “The night is young!” we screeched. My voice was already starting to go.

I saw him in the lineup. He had the jawline of a model, dark brown hair, and piercing come at me eyes. That’s the best way I can describe them. Way too good looking, so I looked away. My wimpy signature move.

Inside I was standing at a bar waiting for a drink when he turned around and grabbed at my nose. An odd yet slightly charming gesture. Up close I saw that he had a lip ring. Not sure how I felt about that, but then he spoke.

“You’re gorgeous.”

Shit, Australian.

“I saw you in line…” he continued.

He was thrilled to meet a born-and-raised Calgarian girl and his friends were just as excited to meet my friends. Before long we were in the middle of the dance floor singing the Canadian anthem with a bunch of good looking Aussies.

I would like to mention that I have never had a one night stand.

I never really felt the need to. Take the night of Stew and the British Invasion for example. I was satisfied with a few hours of flirting and kissing. To his frustration I insisted on walking home without him. I’ve done this many, many times.

Until Australia.

Usually in order for me to be attracted enough to someone to take them home I have to be somewhat emotionally invested. I’ll give it four or five dates. I have to find you intriguing and intelligent.

Unless we’re on the Cowboys dance floor and you have an Australian accent and a lip ring that seems to serve the purpose of a “peacock effect.”

Yes I’ve read the book The Game. It’s genius.

It was nearing the end of the night and Tom kept tugging at my cut offs. I glanced at my friend Amanda and telecommunicated “Should I do this?” with my eyes. She nodded a definite yes.

Ten minutes later Tom, one of his friends, Amanda and I were drinking on my balcony watching the lights from the rides and the drunks stumble across Macleod Trail. It wasn’t long until my roommate walked through the door with a man behind her. I don’t remember his name, but he was also from Australia, yet not from the same Australian posse as Tom and the redhead on my balcony.

How she happened to find another Australian in that gigantic tent beats me. Obviously this night will be forever known as the Australian Invasion and yes we’ve already half-jokingly pondered what country will be next.

I’m not really sure if there’s a lesson in any of this. Perhaps this: If one is feeling frustrated with the lack of men in her life she should simply make a pact with the universe to stop dating and then prepare to be showered with a variety of men with accents.

Or maybe I was right in thinking that I was meant to stay single for another Calgary Stampede because of all the summers and tents I’ve romped around in, this has been the most memorable, and not just because Shania locked eyes with me.

I’ll be forever grateful to Dean Brody’s incredible kick off on Canada Day (I wish I could remember him singing Canadian Girls; I was really excited for that), my roommate who is the only friend I’ve ever had that can keep up with me, and to Cowboy’s serving chicken fingers & fries. And to Tom of course.

Alternative Shania Twain song titles for this blog:

Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?

Rock This Country

I’m Not in the Mood (To Say No)

An Old Love Story

Originally published October 2013

My summer ended in southern Germany around the Lake of Constance, driving through tiny old German villages separated by only a few kilometers of apple trees and vineyards. It sounds peaceful, but add in a little 84 year old German lady with a big to-do list and what it actually was was busy, exhausting, and incredibly special.

“But Oma, what did he first say to you?”

She’s sitting at the kitchen table in our little apartment; one of many in what used to be an old farm house. I’m sitting up in bed typing a note on my iPhone and wishing I had brought my laptop. I know I should let the old lady go to sleep, but after another long day I have so many questions. The busy days that my Oma planned gave me a tiny snapshot of the life they had before they were the grandparents that I knew.

We arrived in Germany Tuesday afternoon and by Wednesday afternoon it felt like I had already seen a weeks worth of history, met a handful of old ladies whose relation to me was too hard to keep track of, and eaten more bread than I normally eat in a week. On Wednesday afternoon Uncle Pete, Oma, her old friend Marelene & I went to Meersburg. This is what I had been waiting for. A few Christmas Eve’s ago Oma had told me how she met my Opa. Now I was getting to set foot on the very same pier, sit on the same bench, and stand outside the restaurant of their first date. And Marelene happens to be the friend who sneakily set up their meeting. Meersburg is beautiful enough on its own. You can see Switzerland on the horizon. There are ships and ferries taking people back and forth across the lake that shimmers the way Shuswap does in the sun. There’s an old castle on the hill above us, and palm trees scattered along the cobblestone sidewalks. I can only imagine how nervous and cute my Oma would have been 60 years ago, standing there waiting for him.

The Christmas she told me the story was quiet and small; we all fit around one table. I was in my early twenties and it was the first time I didn’t have to sit at the kids table. What I’ll remember most about that year is driving my grandma home. It was around 8:30pm; she goes to bed early, even on Christmas Eve. The roads were wet but clear, the sky was a blueish black and the city lights were sparkling. I had never asked her how she met my Opa. The story she told me in her little German accent made me think that not so much has changed.

The war was over and she was a little older than I am now. One of her best friends, unbeknownst to her, put a picture of my Oma in the paper responding to a personal ad. Shortly after she was surprised to be contacted by Mr. Hans Sauter. My Oma was painfully shy, but it must have been written in the stars because she reluctantly agreed to go meet this guy. He set up a date and a time, and off she went. She said she can remember it so clearly, him walking down the pier towards her with a sparkle in his eye. My Opa still had a mischievous sparkle in his eye until the day he left us. They went and sat on a little wooden bench to talk. My Oma tells me they always had so much to talk about, even on that first day. It was like they were long lost friends. He visited every Sunday and in the summer they took a motorcycle to Switzerland. It was the first time he ever yelled at her, probably to calm down. My Opa was a yeller and my Oma is a worrier. They married one year later. Oma tells me that communication was their strength, and lectures me about how important it is in a relationship. I think their ability to stay married for 56 years had a lot to do with the sparkle in his eye too. They went back to Germany in the 80s and took a picture on the same bench.

She says, “So that’s our story”…and I’m holding back the tears. A few years ago when we had to put my Opa in a home she was upset and cried to my mom, “This is the end of our life together.” In their old age they both often went on about how fast time goes. She could tell me the story about how they met like it was just yesterday, and all of a sudden it’s six decades later, and the first Christmas they weren’t spending together.

On boxing day after work that year I went to my Oma’s and she showed me the picture that her friend had sent into the paper. Then she showed me a whole photo album of pictures taken before she had met my Opa and it made me think that we’re not so different from our grandparents. She laughed with her friends, went skiing, traveled, and had a big grin on her face standing beside her best friend. The world is different in countless ways compared to the world in which my Oma met my Opa, but the feelings are the same and the stories we share all have similar beginnings, dramas, and endings.

In Germany this summer, I want to know exactly what he said to her. But she sleepily says she doesn’t remember his exact words. Only that they talked like long lost friends. It was easy, she says. “There’s this feeling you get when it’s right”

On the way home my Oma and her friend were giggling in the back seat while I was trying not to let my eyes shut. Uncle Pete picked up on something they were saying and chuckled so I asked Oma to translate. When they were growing up they had a very strict curfew. When my Oma would get home too late, she would wait at the bottom of the stairs until the train sped by. When it was noisy enough to muffle the sound of her footsteps she would sneak into bed. It’s not very often Oma will tell a story that paints her in this light, but they are my favorite ones.

And that was the coolest part. Walking or driving through another tiny village and my Oma pointing out a set of stairs where she got in a fight at school because she was bragging about already knowing how to cross-stitch. (She would.) Or showing us where her and her family had to run to when their village was about to be bombed. Or the hill she sled down in the winter. Or the bench she first sat in to talk with my Opa.

Oma then tells me she can’t help but wonder what her life would have been like if they had decided to stay in Germany. “I could have grown old with my friends”. But she didn’t say it in a regretful way, because she tells me that the best thing they ever did was purchase a lot on Shuswap, which is the source of so much of my friends & families happiness. They could have never had that if they had stayed in Germany. But she ponders how her life could have been different had they made a different choice. And don’t we all do that from time to time? Our actions and choices have huge ripple effects.   A tiny decision, like the one that got my Opa out of the war safely, creates a life that otherwise would not have existed. And at 84 I can only imagine what retracing your life must feel like. I wanted to know her happiest memories and her saddest. There was something about being in those places where her moments became memories that made the history of my family and where it all started gigantically more interesting.