My Earth Hour Experience

Tonight I took my son to the Science Centre where we watched the lights dim all across the city. Then we danced in the dark to some techno-beat hip-hop mashup. Then we made our way over to where the telescopes were set up and we got a great look at Saturn. I couldn't believe how amazing it looked. I could actually see the ring around it. How cool is that? I hope he remembers all this when he's older.

We left before 9 p.m. and drove home, taking the opportunity to see how dark it was. It wasn't totally dark because the streetlights were still on. But on our street, all the houses were dark. So we walked around the block and waited to see what it would look like when everyone switched their lights back on at 9 o'clock. But it wasn't that dramatic. Most of the houses remained dark. I guess people figured if they could do without lights for an hour between 8 and 9, they might as well leave them off for the rest of the night.

Dating: The Egotiste

Let’s call her Catherine of Arrogance

Today’s story begins with me being invited out to dinner by a person I met through a social group I’d joined online. She turns out to be the rudest, most pretentious and condescending person I’ve ever shared a meal with. But of course, I don’t know that when I agree to meet her and her “hottie” friends for dinner.

So there she sits, waiting -- or should I say holding court -- at her table. Kind of funny-looking, bleached yellow spiky hair, tan-in-a-can, dressed like a cheap hooker. I guess some people might find that attractive but to me it registers as “phony” and “over-compensating.” Still, I want to give her a chance and keep an open mind. Maybe my first impression is wrong. Let’s see.

She begins by immediately putting me on the spot.

“Sit down. Tell us about yourself.” She haughtily commands, as though it were a job interview.

I ask her if she thinks this is a job interview. She smirks and waves a hand full of gaudy jewelry. I tell her and her friends that I’m happy to answer their questions but I’m not applying for any positions at the moment. Her two friends laugh pleasantly enough and they at least seem genuine. She laughs as well but her laughter is grotesquely fake.

After a few cursory questions (“What’s your favourite colour” is about as deep as it gets) she becomes bored with me and launches into her own biography.

First, she puts on airs about her job (“Oooh, I don’t know if I’ve revealed this yet, but I’m actually an interior designer”) Ooooh, whoopee shit for you. She seems to expect me to become giddy over this fresh factoid but I don’t because I actually couldn’t care less.

She also won’t stop talking about some sweaty yoga thing she does and how meditation has made her a perfect spiritual being. She tells me that every day she spends 90 minutes just staring at her own reflection in the mirror. “I have fallen in love with myself,” she purrs with a beatific smile. I clamp my napkin over my mouth, smothering my snicker-reflex.

Thankfully the waiter comes over at this point, to take my order. But silly him, he takes too long with me and this serves to piss off Madame. “When you finish your little chit-chat,” she snarks at him (and me too, I guess) all unamused and prickly-like. Yes, the Imperial Princess is wound so tight, I can practically hear her anus snapping shut.

The meal continues apace. She says she’s a vegetarian but that doesn’t stop her from wearing the most ridiculous pair of leather pants imaginable. On this particular evening, it must be about 15 below with the wind chill. Her pants are basically two leather flaps with huge gaps on the sides, which are then laced up. The effect is bizarre and she looks like a giant S/M sausage.

You know, I don’t have anything against leather. I actually like it. I have a leather jacket myself. But leather pants? Well, there are few people who really look good wearing leather pants. And when it’s the middle of winter and freezing cold out and your pants are all open at the sides, well, leather pants just look stupid. Still, wear them she does, preening and strutting down Church Street like some kind of demented leather peacock.

I follow a few paces back, arm-in-arm with one of the other dinner guests, who is much nicer and much more interesting and who it turns out is the ex-girlfriend of – you guessed it – Mme. Leather Pants. Later on, we all say goodnight and I get a nice warm hug from the ex-girlfriend and an icy stare from Leather Pants.

I later get an e-mail warning me to back off the ex. “She needs to fly solo for awhile,” Leather Pants rhapsodizes, apparently channeling the narrator from Jonathan Livingston Seagull. “She needs to heal and grow.” Heal and grow? Like a eucalyptus plant? Like aloe vera? I’m not really all that interested in the ex but I’m left with a warm, pleasant glow and a certain sense of accomplishment for having pissed off the control freak. Good lord woman, pull down those icky pants, bend over and yank out the pickle. Meditate on that, o holy one.

Lost: No No No No No No No!!!!

How dare they kill Rousseau, one of my favourite characters. Damn them!!!!!!! And I could see it coming a mile off, especially with Karl's rather obtuse appraisal of the situation: "I just have a bad feeling about this."

"So do I!" I scream. "Get out of there!"

But of course, it's too late. Karl is nailed big-time and the sound of darts shooting all around pretty well seals the deal. I know my beloved French goddess is going to be the next castaway to say au revoir.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" I yell at the television.

"One, two THREE!" yells Rousseau. What, she doesn't count in French? There can only be one person named Daniel (le) on the island? Where's the backstory? Where's the flash forward?

She jumps to her feet. I jump to mine. She's hit. I scream and knock over my beer. Now I'm drenched with beer, Alex is drenched with sweat, Karl is drenched with blood.

Rousseau is face-down in the tall grass, apparently dead. Why, why, why, why?????

Now I have to wait four weeks to find out if she's really dead. Maybe they just used the knock-out darts on her. I didn't see any blood on her, after all. Sigh.

Oh well, at least we know why Tom told Kate she wasn't his type. He obviously prefers indulging with Arturro. How many characters have we met so far on this show? Got to be at least 100 by now. It's about time one of them turned out to be gay.

The Scaaaaary Date

There’s one prospect that doesn’t even make it out of the farm league. We exchange phone numbers online and set up a time for me to call her. The conversation begins with the usual pleasantries and then she dives right into kvetching about her co-workers, her boss, her company, and her job in general, which apparently she hates because everyone she works with is an asshole.

The venom is spewing near hurricane force after about 20 seconds and shows no sign of stopping. In fact, she’s practically haemorrhaging bile. Finally she pauses for some air intake and I realize I’m supposed to say something. So I reply with a vague kind of acknowledgement that indeed, work can be a challenge sometimes. I add a brief personal observation about the place where I work. Before I can finish the sentence, she interrupts with this snappy rejoinder: “Oh well, that’s life. Whatcha gonna do…Lah-de-dah, lah-de-dah.”

The alarm bells aren’t just ringing, they are in system overdrive. Red flags bursting out all over like poppies on Remembrance Day. Yep, I think we’re talking serious personality disorder here. And I’m not going to speculate about which one -- or how many of them -- may be at play. I do what any sane person would do. I thank Nasty Nelly for her time and hang up.

Lost: Follow the Sun

Well I was half right. Michael is the spy on the tanker, as I suspected, but now we find out that Sun is the final member of the Oceanic Six. How cruel was that flash-back/flash-forward timeline that led us to believe Jin was with Sun in the future before slapping us in the face with his death? I guess we can also surmise that however the six get rescued, it will happen in a matter of a few months, since Sun is already several weeks along in her pregnancy.

Speed-Dating (Or, oh what fresh Purgatory is this?)

So just to speed up this excruciatingly sluggish process I decide to try speed-dating, which had always seemed like a good idea to me, until I actually tried it.

This event is run by a group called “25 Dates” although I only get 10 “dates” and no one explains the shrinkage. The other wrinkle is that they divide the talent pool into two age groups: 39 and under, and 40 and over. The first group being the young ones and the second being the old bags. I ask how they came up with the idea that 40 is officially “old” and the only explanation I can get is a prim and snotty “this is the way we always do it and this is the way that works best.” So there. Try arguing with that logic.

Apparently any attempt to try something different (say holding one event for those aged 30-50, a sizable cohort) is too complicated.

Not that the pickings are much better in the younger group, but my coterie of crones consists of two people in their early 40s (one of whom would be moi) and the rest well into their 50s and 60s. Well, no offence folks but I’m not really interested in dating my mother, or my grandmother for that matter.

Still, I’m there and I’ve already paid my money. So I gamely move from table to table, or sometimes I stay and the next person comes to me. It’s completely confused and disorganized and the people running it obviously don’t have a clue what they’re doing. But it doesn’t matter because every date is a dud. First I get the whiner. That’s attractive. Then the one who can’t talk about anything but football. Then the one who keeps sticking her face in mine and asking me “Are ya nervous? Are ya nervous?” Charming. There’s not a decent prospect in the bunch. Still, it seems I’m stuck with this pitiful charade for the next 90 minutes. But hey, at least I got a free drink and a handful of nachos in the bargain.

Dating tip: if you are ever tempted to try speed dating, take your $35 and spend it on something worthwhile, like bathtub grout. You’ll thank me later.

Fasten your seatbelts for the Hyper-Date

On to the next exhibit in my virtual rogues' gallery of dating.

This one is really an enigma. She shows up about 20 minutes late for our date and seems to be in some kind of hyper fast-forward mode.

She leans forward, smiles a lot, mirrors my posture and seems to like me. But there’s something odd about her behaviour. Like she’s desperately sprinting to a finish line or something. Some of the things in her online profile are now starting to seem a little exaggerated. And I’m realizing the photo she posted must be at least 10 years old.

The profile said she drove limos for VIPs and famous folk and this angle is played up quite a bit online. She even boasts of partying with her big-time clients after driving them. So I ask her which celebrities she’s driven. Well, none that you’d know, comes the reply. Hhmm, guess they must be those under-achieving kind of celebs that nobody ever hears about.

“Are you the one with the dog?” she asks suddenly.

“Um, no.”

“Are you the one who lives in Burlington?”

“No. I live in the East End,” I reply.

This kind of exchange happens a few more times. She must be setting up dates with quite a few people if she can’t keep us straight.

A week or so later I come home and find a panicked message on my machine that sounds like this:

“Hi it’s me. I’m on the Q-E and I should be at your place in about 15 minutes. Sorry I’m a bit late …blah blah hyper-blah”

I recognize the voice. She’s talking about driving out to Burlington. That’s the place that I don’t live in. She must have confused me with that other person again and mixed up our phone numbers. What a freaking loon.

Still, for a brief, fleeting moment I wonder what the hyper-hurry was all about. Did she make a bet with someone over who could a get a girlfriend the fastest? Maybe she was in line for a huge inheritance if she managed to get hitched in a month.

Guess I’ll never know. G’bye Ms. Enigma. We hardly knew ye.

Lost: Cooking with Ben

This week we are treated to a flashback about how Ben pulled a King David on Goodwin and we also get to see a good old-fashioned chick fight between Charlotte and Juliet. It's a close one but Juliet wins. Afterwards, our two warrior princesses, all sweaty and pummelled, walk outside to find Kate waiting. Kate is pissed, having just recovered from being smacked on the head with the butt end of Charlotte's handgun. Smouldering looks are exchanged. I'm thinking a three-way is in the making but the hot chicks talk it out and there's no more rough stuff, for now.

Meanwhile back at the barracks, Sawyer and Hurley play horseshoes, Locke lets Ben out of jail, and Ben reveals that Penelope’s father is the big bad wolf.

How lovely that we get to see a different side of Ben. A tender side. Shall we call him Gentle Ben? No, I'm afraid not. Although it was quite sweet the way he tried to woo Juliet with a bouquet of flowers, a cute two-bedroom cottage and a romantic gourmet dinner. Poor Ben. Don't you know that psychopathic nerdy types never get women like Juliet? She's sure to end up with an Alpha Male like Jack or a dark, brooding type like Goodwin. Not with you Ben. Sorry.

Anyway, Ben makes up for this unusual show of naivete by taking Juliet to see Goodwin's impaled corpse and then entertaining her with a jealous hissy fit. But wait, he quickly switches back to his sweet old self: "Take all the time you need," he intones in a nonchalant manner, his demeanour turning on a dime. Yikes! Psycho-date alert. Run Juliet. Run away as fast as you can.

So who is the sixth member of the Oceanic 6? And who is Ben's spy on the tanker? I'm thinking the answer to both questions may be Michael.

You're so far away ... thank God

So I’m going to introduce you to some of the duds I’ve subjected myself to over the past several months. And just for the record, I’m not making any of this up. These are all actual people, from actual dates I've had. I'm not kidding. Believe me, I wish I were.

First of all, Ms. Faraway Photo. Yes, I should have known there was a reason why the photo was taken from 12 feet away. And why she’s wearing a big hat and has her head tilted in such a way that you can’t really see her face. But she seems, well, OK. And she definitely has me interested with her flirty, suggestive e-mail messages. She’s articulate and seems to have a pretty good job. She’s a bit older than I’d prefer but not that much older. So we meet.

First of all, what the heck is with her teeth? There’s a big one in front that’s almost sideways, crossing over the one next to it. What’s that called? Snaggle-Tooth? I don’t want to look her in the face because I can’t help staring at those weird teeth.

We have coffee but not much time because she has to be somewhere and so do I (thank God.) So she stands up, and so do I. Her profile said she was 5-foot-7. I’m 5-6, barely, and I can see the top of her head. The top, as in the part in her hair. There’s no way she’s ever gonna be 5-7. Not even in stilettos. Why on earth would she lie about her height? Didn’t she think I’d notice? I mean, it’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?

We say goodbye and she gives me this limp, dead fish handshake. Ewwwww. Next.

Dating secrets, lies and wishful thinking

I have to say that online dating is an excellent opportunity to study human behaviour. It’s absolutely mind-boggling the way people present themselves and the things they say and do in order to impress others. It’s as though the only reality they believe in is the one they have created in cyber-space. The idea being that if they believe it, you will too.

The main problem with this is that if you want to date someone, then eventually you will have to meet the person. And then all the exaggerations and outright lies are exposed and well, that’s the end of that. Thanks for wasting my time.

Sometimes these can be easy to spot. Like the woman who posts a photo and it’s from so far away that you can’t even see her face. Or the photo that is obviously contrary to the person’s description of herself. “Very fine and sexy” it says below a picture of the freakiest looking person imaginable. Yikes!!

Yeah, I know, you gotta love yourself. That’s true, to an extent. But let’s not go overboard. A little perspective is also kind of healthy.

Back to the coupling thing ...

The thing is, this pressure to couple isn’t coming from within. It’s coming from the people around me. You know, the people who are supposed to be my “support system” as they say these days. My so-called “friends,” my family doctor and my freaking therapist for instance. I’ve barely managed to extricate myself from my last relationship (11 years) and the therapist is telling me I need to get out, make friends, date people, find a hobby, get laid.

Now, I don’t have a degree in psychology but don’t you think that jumping into another relationship right away is kind of – what’s the word I’m looking for … oh yeah, that’s it – stupid? I mean sometimes you just want to take a break, take a deep breath and reflect. Appreciate having some time to yourself. Appreciate having a living space that’s just yours, that doesn’t look like a bomb just hit it, or like a junkyard with great mounds of crap piling up everywhere because your partner doesn’t believe in throwing things out or tidying up? You know, those trivial little issues.

And then, there are the more practical reasons. For example: I don’t have time for a new relationship and I don’t have the energy either. Basically, I just can’t be bothered.

Apparently, this means I’ve given up, and of course, that’s just not acceptable. There’s obviously something wrong with me. Now I have to be cajoled into taking action, because if I’m not in a romantic relationship, well then the whole universe will be thrown off kilter and go spinning into a ghastly vortex of nothingness. God, I hate it when that happens.

And so … I’m bullied into taking the next step: Internet dating.

Lost: Desmond does the Time Warp

It’s just a jump to the left and then a step to the right. Oh Brother. Looks like poor Des is caught in some kind of time travel feedback loop. I feel bad for him but even worse for Eloise the rat, who promptly keels over after “jumping” one maze too many.

Of course, this is far too much foreshadowing but just to make sure we understand the gravity of the situation, Des gets a bothersome nosebleed. Uh-oh. Thank goodness Sayid is around to help, talking in a calm voice, getting Des through to the island phone and then wiring up a patch for a call to Penelope. Is there anything this guy can’t do? He’s like the professor on Gilligan’s Island. He can make a radio out of a coconut shell but he can’t fix the hole in the Minnow.

Oh well, at least Des isn’t the only one down the wormhole. Fisher Stevens finally shows up after having his name appear in the opening credits for the past three weeks. We find out that he’s the radio operator, so we’ve been hearing his voice. And, oh yeah, he’s bleeding profusely from the nostrils. Guess we won’t see his name in the credits next week.

The actor playing Faraday is great. Love the long-haired, mad scientist bit, even if he does look a little bit like Oliver Stone hopped up on caffeine. Only with a nicer personality. Not sure what the deal is with Charlotte. She seems almost protective of Faraday. I want to like her, but then I see in the preview for next week that she bops Kate in the noggin and that pushes the needle into the red zone for me. Bad Charlotte.