Italian Men....Hmmmmm....

Well, nothing mends a broken heart like food.  And sleep.  And a cocktail or two.  And I've really been wishing an all expenses paid trip to Cancun would fall into my lap, but my chances of something like that happening are next to nil.  And my passport has expired, so I couldn't go even if it did happen.  I know.  Woe is me, right? 

I did think that perhaps I should explore this whole 'Italian man' thing.  I've always been mostly white (actually a white, white, white, asian, white, Filipino, Filipino, white) kinda gal.  Lately, I've also admired a few beautiful black men on the skytrain, and thought about all those possibilities.  I've never really considered Italian before.

So, of course, I started to do my research (and by research...I mean 'google')  Here are a few of my favourites... 

Oh...wait, wait....disclaimer...

The pictures you are about to see are not just naked (!) men.  They are art. Fabulous, fabulous works of art.  However, some are naked (no bits...fyi) so if you haven't seen a naked man in a while (um, me...) either take a seat before you look, or maybe don't look at all.  Or look, but through your fingers strategically placed over your eyes, so it looks like you can't see, but you really can.  Either way, I say "Enjoy!" and keep reminding yourself...it's art!!

Okay, so first Andy Garcia.  I mean seriously...he's yum-my.  And did you not melt watching him in "When a Man Loves a Woman"?  Hot, talented, and a devoted husband and father...this all equals fabulous to me!

Then there is this guy.  He's a soccer player...or football if you're a Brit.  He's pretty fabulous, don't you think?  His name is Sebastian Giovinci.  Hello, Number 10!!

But as I'm sure you've noticed, while he's cute...he's also clothed.  Not so with Mr. Fabio Cannavaro.  With a name like Fabio, don't you think he's just destined for great things?  Also an Italian Soccer player.  This is art in its most beautiful form.  Look at the definition.  Ya, there's pictures of him with clothes, but clothes just don't suit him as well as that strategically placed soccer ball.  Trust me.  Plus most of the pics of Mr. Fabio include his wife....boo...

So, two cute Italian men who also happen to play soccer.  "Hmmm," I thought to myself..."maybe I'm onto something."  As it turns out, Mr. Cannavaro and Mr. Giovinci have some very nice friends who also like to play soccer...(and stand around in their skivies in a locker room...to each their own...)

Here they are in their countries colours...Patriotic and nearly naked...need I say more?

But then I got to thinking...am I discriminating against all the other non-Italian soccer (Football) players out there.  How absolutely unfair of me.  Here's a favourite.  Mr. David Beckham.  Oh, and he's got one of those uber-sexy British accents.  I met him once.  With his wife...*le sigh*

Okay, so I know what you're thinking...you're thinking, "Why singledatingmommy, he's got clothes on..."  Fear not...

 So, yummy right?  But a bit of a tease.  This next one, on the other hand, is...well...I don't have any words...

It's okay to admire.  Remember, it's art.  And it's science.  How does he get his body to do that without pulling something.  I'm impressed, not gonna lie...

I think soccer is my new favourite sport.  Yes, I do believe it is....

Mr. Dog Park (otherwise known as Mr. Man)

It's been just over a week since I admitted you y'all (and myself) that I have fallen for a 55 year old man.  Mr. Man has become lovingly referred to as Mr. Dog Park among my small circle of friends. 

I don't mind saying I've been stuffing my face in a feeble attempt to heal my poor little broken heart.  My weakness, unfortunately, is both salty and sweet, so the choices are endless...donuts, chocolate bars, wine gums, potato chips, pastries, ohhh my mouth is watering just thinking about it.  And I'm not going to lie...I've had a cigarette or two (or 10...) in attempt to fill this little void inside my heart. 

The worst part is that I still run into Mr. Dog Park every now and again, and he completely ignores me.  It tears me up inside.  For me, seeing Mr. Dog Park makes my day, it makes me happy.  For him, I've become a moral issue where he feels he is being asked to choose between her (together 27 years and lovely) and me (new and mysterious).  I understand this.  And I understand why it has to be like this.  In my head.  In my heart, I just want to run up to him and beg him not to ignore me.

All weekend, I planned this perfect speech.  Oh, it was perfect.  I practiced it to both BFF1 and BFF2.   I traded this word for that, making it the perfect combination of unassuming and friendly.  It was funny, it was serious, it was tongue in cheek.  It was everything I needed to say.  Monday comes around and Mr. Dog Park is (get this) at the dog park (I know!!!) I get close to him, take a deep breath, prepare myself for the words I've spent all weekend repeating over and over and over.  I open my mouth, and out comes a whisper, "Please don't ignore me," with a feeble smile.   Folks, I promise you it did not take me two days to come up with that lame sentence.  While I might not be the most eloquent person ever, I certainly can come up with better than four little words like "Please don't ignore me."

I guess I really am 32 (gasp!) because I've done some pretty adult-ish things with this whole situation.  First of all, while I've been tempted to play the temptress, I've not done it.  I've realized this is a huge test for me.  Have I changed my ways?  I can talk about how I've changed for the better, can I back it up with actions?  Oh. Yes. I. Can.  This is a huge shocker for me...it's not always about me.  In this case, the only part that involves me is walking away.  I know, how adultish of me.  I really, really am so proud of myself for growing up.  For thinking with my head and not my heart.  I'm a grown up *giggle*

I'm taking this for what it is: affirmation that I am not the woman I once was.  If I take it as that, and only that, I can see the change in myself.  And that makes me happy.  I'm still standing.  I'm alone, and I'm okay.  I've also learned something about what I'm looking for in my future partner.  I know, now more than ever, that I want a man who knows how to take care of his woman.  I think that's what the older man symbolized.  And maybe I like Italian men. 

Yaaaaa, Italian men are HOT!!

The Man

I'm standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the night while Molly attacks beetles.  And I'm feeling sorry for myself.   It was probably 5 minutes before I realized it wasn't so safe to be standing in the middle of the road.  So I took my pity party home.  But before I can tell you that story, I must tell you this one..

I've been in love with boys since I was 6 years old.  My first boyfriend (tongue in cheek) was Chris Thomas, and we were both in grade one.  He had a treehouse that said, "No Girls Allowed" and then underneath it, "except Catherine".  He had blue, blue eyes and thick, blonde curly hair.  Next there was Bobby, then another Chris (first Chris' best friend...oh yes, scandal in third grade!!), Scott Bailey, Adam Dickens, Tim Crews, Mike Royan, Art Pike.  Oh....Cameron Holroyd broke my heart when he accepted a baseball scholarship and moved away to Missouri (or something like that.  It was far away, that's all I know) and the list goes on...

After a while, you get used to the broken hearts.  You move on to the next.  As you get older, the broken hearts are fewer and farther between as you become more monogamous...or God willing, at least a little less stupid in your choices.  From there, for me anyways, came a string of married men.  Now, this is not anything I'm any way proud of...but stick with me for a moment while I paint the background.  I spent 10 years of my life with an a-hole.  During those 10 years, all the 'good' men were getting married.  Then they met me.  I cannot even tell you how many times I've heard, "She doesn't understand me."  "She's angry all the time."  "She doesn't want to have sex with me anymore." "Where were you 5 years ago?"   The last (and greatest) was, "I can't wait for you to meet her." Seriously, after stringing me along for I don't know how long, and a series of business trips together, he springs on me that he's married.  And that his wife is meeting him at the airport.  And that I'm going to love her.  Another Mr. Married boldly told me that he would leave his wife for me only after I showed him what I had to offer in the bedroom.  And believe me, I only wish I could be making this up...I cringe as I write it.

Now, I am notorious for falling for a certain type.  Older - always.  I know you're all thinking I must have father abandonment issues, but I don't think that's it.  I guess it could very well be, me not being a psychologist, I'm not really qualified to say either way, but my father and I have a very cordial, polite relationship and I don't feel I need to replace or fill any void he may have left.  I just like older men because they're established.  They have their lives together (presumably), they're financially secure (again, presumably) and that's an attractive quality to someone like me, who also has her life together.  And I'm not going to lie...the thought of being taken care of is really very appealing to someone who has to be everything all the time.  It would be more than fabulous to put this strong exterior away once in awhile and be the one taken care of...the weak one, the soft one, every so often. 

The last year and a half has been filled with no married men.  In fact, the last year has been filled with no men at all.  And I cannot even begin to tell you what a fabulous year it has been.  Having been a serial dater my whole life, I've been able to get to know me on an entirely different level.  And get this, I like me.  I like spending time alone.  I like who I am and who I've become.  I'm not waiting around for someone to complete me or call me or give me the moon and the stars.  If I want something, I go and get it.  It's been a liberating year, not depending on a man for happiness or blaming him for my misery. 

And they say it happens when you least expect it...thus the pity party in the middle of the road.  You see, I met a man.  Although it's completely irrelevant where I met him, I will tell you that whilst walking my lovely Molly I have found a dog park, and therein I found the man.  The man shall remain nameless, and will be referred to only as "the man"...

The man is probably about 20 years older than me.  He has a moustache and leathery worn skin.  He has crows feet and beautiful laugh lines around his mouth.  He has a deep voice.  I don't know much about him, other than when I see him my heart goes pitter patter.  We began to run into each other at the park, and started with small talk and then went on to other, larger talk items.  This morning in the dog park the man and I had a good long talk, but there was tension.  There was this feeling of things that were being left unsaid, and as a gal who knows what she wants and goes and gets it, because she wants it now, I blurted it out that I was enjoying our chats and was growing fond of him.  Ugh, and I actually said these words, "there's a little piece of my heart that has your name on it."  Ugh.  It makes me want to vomit now, but I wanted to say it in a way that was the least obtrusive, and as platonic as possible. 

And he said (after a veeeeeeeeeeery long silence), "Me too.  Me too."

So, good right....

"But...."

Right.  The but.  Always the but...

"The thing is (loooooong pause) she's as sweet as you.  And so I can't.  And I never would."

There you have it, folks.  That is the story of my life.  Men.  Married.  Whether I know it or not.  I'm feeling sorry for myself on so many different levels.  I mean, first of all...it's been a year.  I have been so selective and picky and then the one I start to get all gaga over is taken.  Like seriously??  How fair is that??  What bothers me more is that I wasn't expecting it at all, and I couldn't control it.  It just sort of...was.  Looking forward to seeing him, if for no other reason than to see him.  To smile just to see him smile too.  And it's just always this way, isn't it?  I don't get that happy ending.  I should have remembered that.  Happy endings are for those in fairy tales and romantic comedies.  The happy ending, for me, is the one I create with my son and my family.  I'm feeling like life is unfair.  I'm feeling like I want to just crawl under the covers for a week or so.  I'm feeling like standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the night while Molly attacks beetles. 

What strikes me...what I think I forgot since the last broken heart is the physical hurt.  I can feel my heart breaking.  And it's not enjoyable.  And Tylenol does not work. 

Ahhhh, and **laughing** here...what the eff was I thinking, I mean he's like 20 years older than me....with a 'stache...come on, right?  And grey hair???  Dude, I pull those out!!

So, do I change dog parks?  Or do I enjoy the friendship?  Knowing it cannot be anything more than that, accept it for what it is?  Oh how I long for the treehouse.  The simpler days where no girls were allowed...except for me...

You Had Me at '10 Separate Wash Cycles'

So, the other night at work I was having a good ol' chin wag with the two other women I work with.  The three of us are all single moms (can you feel the estrogen in the room...), so we naturally gravitate towards subjects like:

1. how to save money 
2. how tired we are 
3. how absolutely fabulous, brilliant, hilarious, angelic our kids are

I totally get the irony of this, because not even 10 years ago, the subject matter would have been how cute so and so was or how fat so and so looked in those jeans or how that new hair cut made so and so look 10 years younger...

And then I mentioned the new purchase (well, there were actually two new purchases...but t.v. smeevee I say, and oh let me tell you why...)  I am officially in love with this man.

Mr. Dyson

No.  I have not gone crazy.  I know he's a little old for me.  And a little geeky looking, too.  But this man has single-handedly changed my life for the better.  He invented this...

Doesn't it look like it belongs to NASA or something???

This is the Dyson 23 and it sucks. up. everything.  I guess it would be more accurate to say he's changed Q's life for the better.  Personally, I haven't vacuumed since Q was 2.  He loves the vacuum.  The love affair started at a birthday party when he was six months old, and as soon as he was able to stand and balance himself he has vacuumed.  In fact, it's like a treat (or a bribe!!)..."Q, if you don't eat your dinner, you cannot vacuum.  I'm sorry.  That's just the way it is."  Not a word of a lie, those words have come out of my mouth.   So naturally, Q was the first to take this baby for a spin.  This thing was sucking things out of our carpet that had probably been there for 5 years.  We stood around Q, my mom and I as he carefully turned it on.  We oohhhhhed and ahhhhed at how quiet it was, how it got right into the corners, how we had to only go over the carpet once and it got it all!!!!  And the stairs...Mr. Dyson thought of everything, it has a hook that goes on the stair, so the vacuum doesn't fall on top of you while you work.  Sheer brilliance, I tell you, brilliance.  We took turns.  We bonded.  And it didn't take 45 minutes like the old one.  I mean, the old one was lime green, so it gets points there, but then the points stop.  If you're in the market for a new vacuum, you have my permission to also fall in love with Mr. Dyson.  I don't mind sharing him.

Our single mom conversation then switched to the subject of front loading washing machines.  One of the girls just got a new one and I am jealous.  I don't mind saying I get goose bumps when I talk front loaders.  I am dying, dying I tell you, to have one.  And the next spare grand or so I have lying around will be spent on one of these puppies...

It's just so....pretty....

Shut the front door!  It's a washer and a dryer in one!!!!!!

Red?  Are you kidding me?  It's fabulous!!!

Well, c'mon...it's blue...need I say more?

Really, truly...it just makes me want to wash some clothes!!  Who needs a man when you can daydream about major appliances?? Not to mention how useful these thing are...

Oh....now that's just mean...

What are you Wearing?

One of my most favourite past times is people watching.  Yeppers...just give me an afternoon and a room full of odd looking people and I'm a happy camper.  Talk about a cheap date, huh?  (And still, no one wants to date me...shocked!!)

There is one thing I've noticed....if you're gangsta, you're gangsta...straight up.  You don't just wake up one day and think, "Man, I haven't worn those super baggy jeans that hang down around my knees and the basketball jersey and my big dollar sign necklace for a long time.  I'm feelin' like I don't so much feel like doing up my shoes...well, not my left one anyways.  And it has been forever since I wore my baseball hat to the side with the bandanna underneath it.  Word."  Nope.  That's all you got.  You open the closet and you got gangsta.  There is no 'preppy' in a gangsta closet.

And if I were to venture a guess, grandmotherly types all have high waisted jeans and sweaters with kittens on them.  Ohhh, and pastel tracksuits.  Moreso than they have necklaces with huge medallions on them that say, "Peace".  It's just a guess, though.  If you're hippy one day, can you go goth the next?  I'm not sure.  Athough one day I noticed this woman in her early 20's wearing bell bottoms, a long black coat, a sheep backpack (as in, it looked like a sheep...) and a pirate hat.  What kind of style is that, I ask?  I'm still asking, actually.  Ugh, I was just dying to go over and say, "Arghhhh Matey!"  But I just couldn't do it (must be something about being 32...)

A few weeks ago I was in the waiting room of a doctors office and this woman walks in wearing 5 inch white stiletto boots with fur at the top, skin tight acid washed jeans and a white leather jacket.  Her long, long hair perfectly straightened and in place, blond streak, dark streak, blond streak, dark streak, and so on.  Her make up was done perfectly, complete with a botox-frozen expression and extra plumped up lips.  To each his (or her) own, I'm just saying when I'm sick and going to a the doctor, it's really all I can do to get out of my pajamas, let alone wear chap stick.  But I guess if you're perfection incarnate, you're perfection incarnate, whether or not you have a fever of 102.

I have seen velour tracksuits in the middle of summer, with one leg rolled up to the knee...which I totally don't get...is just that one calf hot?  Or is it some odd ventilation system they know of, and they're not sharing...in their head they just keep thinking, "awww yeahhhh, who's the dumb one now?" 

I have one friend who looks absolutely glamorous no matter what she's wearing.  She just laughs at me when I tell her this, but it is so true.  A few weeks back we went to watch her daughter play soccer and she's in jeans, rubber boots, and a rain coat with her hair pulled back in a pony tail, and she looks like she's walked out of a "Harrowsmith" magazine.  She is so stunningly graceful and elegant.  She looks as though she has just put the horse back in the stable and she's going back to the castle for tea.  You put me in rubber boots, and well...to be honest, I don't know what I'd look like, because I don't own a pair.  Who would have ever thought I'd be coveting rubber boots...

Side bar:  Whilst googling Harrowsmith, I've found it's not a European magazine at all, but a Canadian one...I've linked the reference, so all you non-Canadians can see what I mean.  It's so weird though, I could have sworn it was from the UK.  I digress, once again.

Anyways, what's my point???  I don't have one.  It's an observation, that's all.  My style...it's kinda 'single mom, ooooh that's on sale and hides my belly' chic.  I have clothes that I've bought thinking (read: hoping) I could wear on a date.  Um, well....they still have the price tags on them...

Just for fun, what's your style?

And what exactly are "apple bottom jeans"...

Dumb Dog Diary

Anyone want a puppy?

She's super cute....

And super dumb...

The good news is that if you decide to take her, you probably won't have her for long.  Molly likes to run away.  She's my little escape artist. 

In the past week, she has run away three times.  Three times.  And this is when we're with her.  She's so friggen fast and tiny and determined, you cannot catch her.  It's impossible.  I'm not gonna lie, I'm ready to stop trying.   

Today was the latest, when I took her to a park and let her run.  In my defense, she usually sticks right by me...so letting her run free for a few minutes was me being nice.  Yah.  I'm not gonna be so nice next time.  She runs away from me, past the park, through the fence, across the street...

Yes, little Molly was running, no...she was frolicking amongst the cars.  And I'm running around, in and out of the traffic, like an idiot trying to catch her.  Then she starts jumping on the car doors, trying to get in the car.  Like, "oh....there's a person in there...they might want to love me!" 

Earlier this week, she snapped her collar (and ran away...) but we haven't gotten her another one yet...so if I had just walked away, no one would have known she was mine.  The thought crossed my mind more than once. 

Finally, she ran into someone's garden and they were able to catch her for me. 

I'm feeling totally in over my head.  I don't know how to train a puppy.  I lie awake at night worrying about if I'm raising Q to the best of my ability...I don't have time to worry about a puppy too.  She is so stubborn and she doesn't understand english...this makes things very difficult for me. 

And that's not even the worst of it...I wake up this morning to this loud bang, so I run into the kitchen.  There is Molly, she has jumped on top of her kennel and on to the kitchen counter.  She looks up from the cereal bowl she's licking, like..."oh...this is awkward."  

I need Cesar Millan.  I know he's the Dog Whisperer to the stars...but do you think he'd take pity on lil ol' me and Molls? 

Otherwise, I have a Dumb Dog...Free to a Good Home...

'Q'-isms

"I was born in Canada.  I live in Canada.  But I just don't like the Canucks"

That's my little hockey fan!

On Second Thought

Sigh...

Somethings just aren't meant to be.

Like me and pink boots.

I guess this means I'm really growing up because I'm sacrificing fashion for function.  I remember when I was in high school, I would wear all my shoes with no socks. Like not even in the winter, when it was -30 and there was 10 inches of snow.  It's true.  I grew up in Calgary, Alberta, where the winters are so cold your nostril hairs freeze when you breathe in and so cold, your eyes water and then your tears freeze to your face.  But even then, I wore my shoes with no socks.  For some reason I cannot remember, socks were not cool.  Evidently, cold feet and frost bite were cool.

I don't know if it was the bruises around my ankles or the sharp, shooting pains up the sides of my legs that made me take the boots back.  Maybe it was that my each one of my poor toes felt like it was being crushed that did the trick.  Perhaps if it were only the bruises or only the sharp, shooting pains, I would have been able to bear it in the name of fashion.  And toes...who really needs those?  I've heard they're only there for balance...and balance is totally over-rated...Whatever it was in the end, my feet thank me.

And what was I thinking anyways????  Pink?  In a Warehouse?  Ridiculous.  Within 3 days they were dirty (shout-out to Marks Work Wearhouse, who took back the dirty, worn boots without even so much as a dirty look...100% satisfaction guaranteed, the lady said.)  Can you even imagine the filth on those things in a month?  And what if it rained?  My goodness, not the least bit practical.  And hello, I'm an adult.  What adult wears pink boots at all, let alone steel toed ones.  I have to admit that I did feel a little foolish wearing them....even if they brought a smile to every single one of my employees.  And no, they were not laughing AT me. 

Believe me...I asked...

You'd think that if women were smart enough to make cute, pink steel toed boots, they'd be smart enough to make them comfortable too.  I guess that is just asking too much. 

So now it's back to boring old black boots.  Practical boots.  Comfortable boots.  Dull, boring practical boots.

I think I might have to go get me a be-dazzler. Just Imagine!!  Rhinestones!  I could bling those bad boys up!  (Okay, yes I do hear how silly I just sounded there...)

But I really miss my pink boots...