I’m in Ottawa, our nation’s capital! It’s also home of the city I lost my virginity in. (I think I left it at Boston Pizza, on St. Laurent.) I didn’t actually lose my V-card to a true Ottawatonian, though. I lost it with an exchange student from England while I was going to Carleton University. A great dude I still refer to as the “Cherry Picker.”
But in recent years, my luck with Ottawa dudes has been FACKING hideous. The last guy I had a fling with here, was a guy who bought me a drink after a show. Seemed cute enough. We ended up hanging out the next night. He bought me wine, and I stole his McDonalds coupons. (I’ve got sweet moves.) Nothing kinky happened, but when I went home to Toronto, we started texting all the time. I started to like him. So weeks later, I went back to Ottawa, to seal the deal, if you know what I mean… We ended up doing it on the couch, while he watched The Bacherlorette. (He was obsessed with Emily.) After the sex, he got up, went to the kitchen, microwaved DAY OLD poutine, ate it in front of me, and said,
“Sorry there’s not enough for you.”
EWWWW! Who eats day old poutine? Who SAVES any sort of left over poutine? What a moron. So I facked him one more time, then bolted. (Don’t judge me. I drove five hours for this.)
I also had a boyfriend from Ottawa six years ago. He came to visit me in Toronto and apparently got the city mixed up with an alcohol factory. While I was trying to sleep one night, and he was on one of his 24/7 benders, my roommate had to call the cops on him. He almost burned down our apartment after trying to light a cigarette off our stove. The relationship inevitably ended with a restraining order. If you’ve ever had that argument over whether it’s harder to be the “dumper” or the “dumpee,” I’ll tell you right now: The easiest break up is when the cops do it for you. It’s a no brainer. I wonder if he ever online stalks me. If he does, “HIEEEEEEEE!”
And you wonder why I love being single…
So I should definitely proceed with caution here in O-Town this weekend. Of course, the first thing I do when I get to town is track down a Taco Salad and immediately open Tinder. Within ten minutes, I’ve got eight dudes in my box. (Tinder box, ya pervs.) I gotta say, the messages start flying in at an insane rate. I’m gathering not a lot of chicks are on Tinder here. Or maybe there’s an uneven ratio of guys to girls here. Is Ottawa the new Alaska? It’s FACKING cold enough to be.
Het Christina. You’re my first match!! How are you?
Would you want to meet for a drink or something? Promise imm not douche..
Do you live in Ottawa?
Nothing? Why did ya sign up?
I don’t think I need to tell you, those typos are his, not mine. And why does he lash out at the end, cuz I didn’t immediately respond? Yikes.
Hey there, are you into bdsm?
Whoa, that last message was awfully creepy of me. I promise my next message won’t be creepy.
Wait for it.
I love kittens.
How is a city full of our country’s leading politicians crawling with lunatics? Wait a second…
I decide I can’t respond to any of these dudes, so I write to one who hasn’t written me yet. Maybe playing offense will have a better pay off. We start messaging. He asks me what I do for a living.
That’s privileged information:)
FACK! Shouldn’t have said that. Sounds like I’m a hooker.
Wait! But I’m not a hooker or anything! Great, now I guess I can’t ask what you do…
He responds ten minutes later.
I do masonry.
Is that like bdsm? I should Google that…. OHHHHH… a bricklayer… Last week, I learned the word “crysturbate,” this week, “masonry.” I’m going to be ready for Jeopardy after this Tinder bender.
Later in the evening, he suggests we switch numbers. I tell him I’m scared to give out my number on Tinder. He writes,
Well u can guarantee you I’m not a psycho
Hold up! The wording there… I didn’t read that properly at the time, but now I notice he never said HE could guarantee he’s not a psycho…
After my show, I meet some comics for drinks. He’s messaging to meet up, but the later it gets, the less I feel comfortable meeting him. He asks if I have booze in my hotel room.
A blatant lie. What road comic doesn’t stash an emergency bottle in her room? I finally decide I’m done for the night. Well, not totally. I ditched him for a Big Mac. I send him a message.
I’m toast. I’m here til Sunday. I’m passing out.
He writes back multiple times.
Stick to the plan
So I give him an offer that I’m sure every guy is SUPER pumped to get at 1:00am.
He still finds a way to be kinky back.
I do have the day off:) I’d re energize you :p
Facking :P thing again….
(Also, SORRY! I can clearly see I’m 900 words in and I haven’t technically met the guy yet. I can facking babble, eh? And this is me writing sober! I swear!)
The next day, I meet him at Bridgehead Coffee, on Elgin St. I get there first, and like most coffee shops in the world, there’s no free table. (This is why I end up writing in bars a lot.) Luckily, a table opens up before he gets there. He walks in as I’m checking in on Foursquare (a must-have app for Tinderellas.) He looks a lot different than his picture. I’m also surprised he’s wearing one of those puffy vests I describe in date #35. It’s so cold in Ottawa, he has to wear three layers under the puffy vest. Why not just try a jacket? I really don’t understand the puffy vest. I just don’t.
He orders something with ice in it. (Maybe he likes being cold.) Well, this is awkward… two sober people, in the middle of the day who have never met… I could easily hang out with Gretzky sober, but a total stranger? This is stiff stuff, folks. He finally breaks the ice.
“I don’t really like coffee.”
“Oh, sorry! It’s just I can’t drink. I have two shows tonight. Sorry!”
The date stumbles along, with lots of slow nodding, uncomfortable faces and “ummm”’s, like Rob Ford on Jimmy Kimmel last night. I finally ask him more about his job. (Because I’m SO interested in brick layering, obvi.)
“And is this what you always wanted to do?”
Yup. I’m playing the, “Do you have any hopes and dreams?” card. FACK! I can be cheesy, eh? But the anthropologist in me is always curious to discover what people want out of life, and what people are actually doing. Sadly, they usually don’t match up.
“No, I actually went to school for art. I like to sketch people. I always wanted to be one of those people who sit in the courtroom and sketch criminals and rape victims and stuff.”
Say what? Did he just drop an “R” bomb on a first date? Did I almost meet this guy at 1:00am last night? The word freezes my body more than the weather outside. The job he’s describing actually might be an interesting one, but he could have swapped out “rape victims” for “bank robbers” or something, right? Now I feel super creeped out…
The date ends quite soon after that. I don’t even stand up to say goodbye. I give him a hi-five. That was awkward. I go back into my Tinder to look at his photos again. I realize the guy I thought I was meeting was actually the guy beside him. Oops. But to be fair, I misled him too. I made him think I’m the kind of girl who insists on meeting dates at coffee shops. We all know THAT’S not true. But after today, maybe it should be…
Keep calm and Tinder on,
P.S. As much as I knock the puffy vest, I’m one of these idiots who wears gloves with holes in the finger tips so I can still use my phone.
P.P.S. Shaun: If you’re reading this, you were a great Ottawa boyfriend. But technically, you’re from Pembroke.